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CAMILLE: 


PLAY  IN  FITVE  ACTS: 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  ALEXANDER  DUMAS.  Jr. 


BY 


MATILDA   HERON, 


WHILE    !  Pi    PARIS 


CINCINNATI: 

T     WRIGHTS  ON   &   CO.,    PRINTERS 

167  Walnut  Street. 

1856. 


'b 


•V 


«»>< 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856,  by 
MATILDA    HERON, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of  Ohio. 


,, 


CHARACTERS  IN  THE  PLAT 


ARMAND  DUVAL. 

MONSIEUR  DUVAL,  Father  of  Armand. 

COUNT  DE  VARVILLE. 

GASTON. 

GU  STAVE. 

MESSENGER. 

CAMILLE. 
PRUDENCE. 
OLIMPE. 
NICHETTE. 

NAN1NE. 


CAMILLE. 


ACT  FIRST. 


Scene: — A  room  in  the  house  of  Camille. 

Count  de  Varville  and   Nanine  Discovered. 

Door-bell  rings  as  the  curtain  rises. 

Varville.     Some  one  has  rung  the  bell. 

Nanine.     Yes,  I  hear.     Valentine  will  attend  to  the  door. 

Varville.     Perhaps  it  is  Camille. 

Nanine.  No,  not  yet.  She  said  she  would  return  at  half- 
past  ten,  and  it  is  not  ten  yet.  [Nichette  speaks  without.'] 
Ah,  it  is  Madmoiselle  Nichette's  voice. 

Nichette.  [Entering.']  Oh,  excuse  me !  I  thought  Mad- 
moiselle Camille  was  here. 

Nanine.  No,  Nichette,  she  is  not  in.  You  wish  to  see 
her? 

Nichette.  I  was  merely  passing  the  door,  and  I  felt  like 
coming  up  to  say  good-night  to  her.  But  since  she  is  not 
here,  you  will  please  tell  her  that  I  called. 

Nanine.     Will  you  wait  awhile?     She  will  soon  be  in. 

Nichette.  No,  thank  you!  Gustave  is  at  the  door.  Is 
she  well  ? 

Nanine.     Ah, — always  the  same. 

Nichette.  Did  she  leave  with  you  the  little  bundle  that  I 
requested  of  her  the  other  day  ? 

Nanine.     Yes ;  but  you  are  not  going  to  carry  it  ? 

Nichette.     Why  not?     It  is  not  heavy. 


CAMILLE,, 


Nanine.  You  had  better  let  me  send  it  to  you,  and  save 
you  the  trouble. 

Nichette.  I  thank  you.  But  nothing  is  a  trouble  that  I 
do  for  Camille.  Please  tell  her  that  I  will  do  these  very  nicely, 
and  bring  them  to  her  in  a  few  days,  and  that  I  left  my  love 
for  her.     Adieu,  Nanine !  Adieu,  Monsieur!  [Uxit. 

Varville.     Umph  !     A  very  pretty  girl !     Who  is  she  ? 

Nanine.     That  is  Madmoiselle  Nichette. 

Varville.    Nichette !  That's  the  name  of  a  cat,  not  a  woman. 

Nanine.  It  is  a  pet  name  that  Camille  gave  her.  They 
are  very  fond  of  each  other.  They  used  to  be  companions, 
and  worked  together  in  the  same  room. 

Varville.     What !     Worked  ?     Did  Camille  ever  work  ? 

Nanine.     Yes — she  was  an  embroidress. 

Varville.     Why,  I  never  knew  that  before. 

Nanine.  It  was  your  own  fault,  Monsieur;  for  Madam 
has  made  no  secret  of  it. 

Varville.  This  little  puss — puss — what's  her  name  ?  Ah ! 
this  Nichette,  as  you  call  her,  is  rather  pretty. 

Nanine.     And  more — she  is  wise. 

Varville.  Wise!  Ah,  yes, — well,  wise  is  a  good  word. 
But  who  is  this  Monsieur  Gustave  who  was  waiting  for  her 
below  ? 

Nanine.     He  is  her  husband. 

Varville.     Oh,  then  he  is  Monsieur  Nichette ! 

Nanine.  That  is,  he  is  not  her  husband  yet ;  but  he  will 
be,  and  that  is  the  same  thing. 

Varville.  I  understand.  She  is  wise  as  the  world  goes. 
But  she  has  a  lover. 

Nanine.  Who  loves  but  her,  and  who  will  marry  her,  and 
make  her  a  good  husband.  And  take  my  word  for  it,  she  is 
a  good  girl,  and  deserves  all  the  happiness  he  can  bestow 
upon  her. 

Varville.  So  thrives  everybody's  suit  but  mine.  Nanine, 
do  you  think  Camille  cares  any  more  for  me  than  she  used 
to  ?     That  is,  do  you  think  she  really  loves  me  ? 


CAMILLE. 


Nanine.     Not  the  least  little  bit  in  the  world! 

Varville.  What  ?  Pheugh !  [Aside.]  A  strange  way  of 
answering  a  civil  question  that  girl's  got!  [To  Nanine.'] 
But  it  must  be  said  that  she  has  strange  taste,  or  she  never 
could  endure  the  tedious  visits  of  that  old  Monsieur  de  Meu- 
riac.     They  must  be  very  annoying. 

Nanine.  You  would  not  think  so  if  you  could  hear  how 
Madam  speaks  of  him.  Besides,  poor  old  man,  it  is  the  only 
happiness  he  has,  and  he  regards  her  as  his  own  child. 

Varville.  Oh,  yes !  By  the  way,  I  heard  of  that  verj 
pathetic  and  interesting  story ;  but  unhappily  I  Gannot  be- 
lieve it. 

Nanine.  Then  listen  to  me  and  I  will  endeavor  to  con- 
vince you.  There  are  many  evil  things  said  of  Madam,  and 
with  truth ;  but  that  is  the  very  reason  why  things  that  are 
not  true  should  not  be  said.  About  two  years  ago,  Camille, 
after  a  long  illness,  determined  to  visit  the  celebrated  waters 
of  Bagneres,  to  recover,  if  possible,  her  health.  I  ac- 
companied her.  Among  the  invalids  at  the  hotel  there  was  a 
lovely  young  girl,  the  same  age  as  Camille,  suffering  from 
the  same  complaint,  and  bearing  such  strong  resemblance  to 
her,  that  wherever  they  went,  they  were  called  the  twin  sisters. 
This  young  girl  was  Madmoiselle  de  Meuriac,  daughter  of  the 
Duke. 

Varville.     Madmoiselle  de  Meuriac  died. 

Nanine.     She  did. 

Varville.  Oh,  yes  !  I  have  heard  this  story  before;  and 
that  the  Duke  implored  Camille  to  change  her  course  of  life, 
promising  that  if  she  would  consent  to  do  so,  he  would  charge 
himself  with  all  her  wants,  and  introduce  her  to  society  in 
which  she  would  be  loved  and  honored.  Camille  at  length 
consented.  This  was  not  two  years  since;  and  to-night  she 
is  at  the  opera,  the  Queen  of  the  Camelias,  fifty  thousand 
francs  in  debt. 

Nanine.  Which  you  have  kindly  offered  to  pay.  Yes,  you 
are  right,  Mon.  de  Varville.     Madam  is  gayer  now  than  she 


CAMILLE. 


ever  was  before;  but  no  one  knows  her  heart.  Ah,  sir,  you 
would  have  pitied  her  had  you  seen  her  efforts  to  please  the 
world  in  which  the  Duke  de  Meuriac  sought  to  gain  her  a 
position.  She  was  so  gentle,  so  child-like,  it  seemed  as  if  the 
spirit  of  the  dead  girl  had  left  its  innocence  with  her,  and 
blotted  out  all  record  of  the  past.  Day  by  day  all  who  knew 
her  grew  to  love  her.  But  this  was  not  to  last.  The  Duke 
was  called  away.  In  his  absence  her  story  reached  the  circle 
in  which  she  moved.  From  that  moment  it  was  closed  against 
her.  She  was  shunned  as  an  adder  ;  and  in  their  cruel  sneers 
they  told  her  to  go  back  to  Paris  and  wear  Camelias.  She 
did  return  to  Paris — met  old  friends,  who  gave  a  warmer 
welcome  to  her  faults  than  the  better  world  had  given  to  her 
virtues.  [Boor-bell  rings.']  Ah,  here  she  is  !  Shall  I  tell 
her  what  you  were  saying  ? 

Varville.  No,  Nanine — you  are  too  amiable  to  make  mis- 
chief. 

[Enter  Camille.~] 

Camille.  [To  Nanine. ~]  Order  supper.  Olimpe  and  Gas- 
ton will  be  here  presently.  I  met  them  at  the  opera.  [Exit 
Nanine.     Seeing  Varville.^     Ah,  you  are  there  ! 

Varville.     Yes,  it  is  my  destiny  to  await  you. 

Camille.  And  it  is  my  destiny  to  find  you  ever  here  on 
my  return. 

Varville.  And  it  shall  continue  to  be  until  you  forbid 
me  your  door. 

Camille.  Indeed  !  am  I  never  to  enter  this  house  without 
finding  you  here  before  me  ?  What  have  you  got  to  say,  now 
that  you  are  here  ? 

Varville.     You  know  the  only  subject  of  my  heart. 

Camille.     Heart !     I'm  sick  of  that. 

Varville.     Is  it  my  fault  if  I  love  you  too  well  ? 

Camille.  There  it  is  again !  My  good  friend,  if  I  were 
to  listen  to  every  man  who  tells  me  he  loves  me,  I  would  not 
have  time  to  breakfast.  For  the  hundreth  time,  I  repeat, 
Mon.  de  Varville,  it  will  not  do !     You  are  losing  time.     You 


CAMILLE. 


are  ever  welcome  to  enter  here — when  I  go  out,  and  to  leave 
when  I  enter:  but  if  you  will  insist  on  speaking  to  me  of 
your  love,  you  must  not  come  at  all. 

Varville.  A  year  ago,  at  Bagneres,  Camille,  you  thought 
differently. 

Camille.  Yes  ;  but  that  was  a  year  ago.  At  Bagneres.  A 
very  dull  place.  I  was  sick.  Things  have  changed.  This 
is  Paris.     I  am  better  now. 

Varville.  Especially,  since  the  Duke  de  Meuriac  has 
adopted  you. 

Camille.     You  are  a  fool ! 

Varville.  Or,  perhaps,  since  the  Count  de  Giray  has  been 
the  chosen  one. 

Camille.  Monsieur  de  Varville,  I  am  at  liberty  to  love 
whom  I  please.  That  is  purely  my  affair — certainly  not 
yours.  And  if  you  have  nothing  else  to  say,  go  home.  Good 
night.  [He  goes  up  and  sits  at  the  fire.  She  goes  to  the 
piano  and  plays.'] 

Varville.     Bravo  !  Bravo  ! 
Camille.     Are  you  not  gone  yet  ? 

Varville.     No,  not  yet.     I  am  waiting  your  better  humor. 
[She  coughs.']     You  are  ill,  Camille.     What's  the  matter. 
Camille.     Nothing,  I  will  be  better — when  you  are  gone. 
Varville.     Ah,  I   see  my    star    is     not  propitious.      So, 
I   will  say  good   night.       Camille,  shall  I  call   to-morrow   at 
one? 

Camille.  Yes,  do.  [Aside.]  I  shall  be  out  from  twelve  till 
five. 

Varville.     Adieu.     [Goes  up.~\ 
[Enter    Nanine,  who  announces  Mademoiselle    Olimpe  and 
Monsieur  Gaston,  and  exits. — Enter  Olimpe  and  Gaston. 
Camille.     Come  in,  Olimpe,  I  thought  you  were  never  com- 
ing to  see  me  any  more. 

Olimpe.     It  was  all  his  fault. 

Gaston.  Yes,  all  my  fault !  It  always  is,  you  know.  Ah, 
how  are  you,  Varville  ? 

Varville.     How  are  you,  Gaston  ?     Glad  to  see  you. 


10  CAMILLE. 


Gaston.     You  sup  with  us  to-night ;  do  you  not. 

Varville.     Do  I,  Camille  ? 

Camille.  'No — no  !  Why,  I  thought  you  bid  me  good  night 
just  now. 

Varville.     So  I  did ;  but  I  thought  you  called  me  back. 

Cfaston.  Well,  my  little  girl ;  how  have  you  been  all  this 
time. 

Camille.     Oh,  very  well ! 

Gaston.  So  much  the  better.  In  passing  the  Cafe  de 
Paris,  I  ordered  some  fine  oysters  and  a  basket  of  champagne 
of  a  certain  brand,  which  they  keep  expressly  for  my  use. 
It  is  excellent,  I  assure  you  !  So  vive  lajoil— -there  will  be 
no  scarcity  of  amusement. 

Olimpe.     There  never  is  when  you  are  about. 

Gaston.     Mademoiselle  Olimpe,  you  are  a  wicked  woman. 

Olimpe.  No  wonder,  I  keep  bad  company.  [To  Camille.] 
Will  Prudence  be  here  ? 

Camille.  Yes,  she  should  be  here  by  this  time.  [Calls  at 
window.]     Prudence. 

Olimpe.     Oh,  Prudence  is  your  neighbor,  is  she  ? 

Camille.  Yes,  she  lives  just  opposite.  It  is  very  conve- 
nient. When  I  want  her,  I  have  only  to  open  the  window 
and  call.     [Calls. ~\     Prudence  ! 

Gaston.     Who  is  Madame  Prudence  ? 

Olimpe.  She  is  a  milliner,  and  has  but  one  customer, — 
Camille. 

Gaston.     What,  Camille,  do  you  wear  all  her  bonnets  ? 

Camille.  Oh,  no, — heaven  forbid!  It  is  bad  enough  to  have 
to  pay  for  them.  But  she  is  a  good,  soul,  with  a  heart  as 
light  as  her  purse.     [Calls.']     Prudence  ! 

Prudence.     [Without.]  Here  lam. 

Camille.  Well,  here  we  are  waiting  for  you.  Why  do  you 
not  come. 

Prudence-.     I  cannot  just  now. 

Camille.     What  detains  you  ? 

Prudence.     A  young  man  whom  I  have  not  seen  for  a  long 


CAMILLE.  11 


time  has  just  stepped  in  to  see  me,  and  I  cannot  leave  him 
alone. 

Camille.  Then  bring  him  along.  Quick  !  Quick  !  Ugh ! 
how  cold  it  is  !  Mon.  de  Varville,  do  pray,  put  some  wood 
on  that  fire,  I  am  frozen  here.  Make  yourself  useful,  for 
you  are  not  agreeable.     [  Varville  fixes  fire.] 

[Enter  Nannie,  who  announces  Monsieur  Armand  Duval 
and  Madame  Duverney.] 

Camille .     Bid  them  enter,  [Exit  Nanine. 

Enter  Armand  and  Prudence, 

Prudence.  My  dear  Camille,  allow  me  to  present  to  you 
Monsieur  Armand  Duval. 

Camille.     Must  I  rise  ? 

Armand.  No,  Madam ;  it  is  not  necessary.  [Goes  and 
speaks  to  others.'] 

Camtlle.     [To  Prudence.]  Who  is  your  friend? 

Prudence.     The  man  of  all  Paris  who  loves  you  the  most. 

Camille.  Indeed!  Tell  Nanine  to  place  another  knife 
and  fork  upon  the  supper  table ;  for  I  dare  say  that  love 
will  never  take  away  his  appetite. 

Prudence.  Camille,  I  am  serious.  That  young  man  loves 
you  almost  to  madness. 

Camille.     Yes  !  But  he  will  not  go  mad. 

[Olimpe  presents  Armand  to  Gaston.] 

Gaston.  Duval !  Oh,  yes ;  I  heard  that  name  before. 
Are  you  any  relation  to  Monsieur  Duval,  that  gruff,  crusty 
old  gentleman,  who  was  sometime  Receiver-General  at  Tours  ? 

Armand.  Oh,  yes !  He  is  my  father.  Do  you  know 
him? 

Gaston.  I  have  had  that  pleasure.  I  met  him  at  the  house 
of  the  Baroness  de  Nersay.  Also  your  mother,  Madam  Du- 
val, who  was  a  very  beautiful  and  charming  lady. 

Armand.     Alas,  sir  !  she  has  been  dead  for  three  years. 

Gaston.  Pardon  me,  sir !  I  was  not  aware  of  it,  or  I 
should  not  have  recalled  her  memory. 

Armand.     Oh,  sir  !  you  can  never  offend  by  reminding  me 


12 


CAMILLE. 


of  my  mother ;  for  next  to  possessing  affections  so  beautiful 
and  pure  as  hers,  is  the  remembrance  of  them  when  they  are 
beyond  our  reach. 

G-aston.     You  are  an  only  child. 

Armand.     Oh,  no  !  I  have  a  dear  sister.     [They  go  up.] 
Camille.     [To  Prudence.']     I  begin  to  like  your  friend. 
Prudence.     I  guessed  it  would  be  so ;  and  so  I  told  him 
before  we  came. 

Camille.     And  did  he  really  tell  you  he  loves  me  ? 
Prudence.     To  be  sure  he  did,  and  more  ;    I  knew  it  long 
ago.     But  you  laugh  so  at  the  idea  of  love,  that  I  did  not 
dare  to  say  so. 

Olimpe.     What  are  you  two  whispering  about  there  ? 
Camille.     Listen  and  you  shall  know.     Monsieur  de  Var- 
ville,  will  you  ever  cease  that  noise  ? 

Varville.     Noise !     Why  you  told  me  to  play  all  the  time. 
Camille.     That  was  when  I  was  alone  with  you  ;  but  I  need 
no  pastime  now. 

Prudence.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  for  two  years  you  have 
been  his  only  thought.  You  may  remember  when  you  were 
ill  a  year  ago,  before  you  went  to  Bagneres,  that  during  the 
three  months  you  were  confined  to  bed,  you  were  told  a  young 
man  called  every  day  to  learn  how  you  were ;  but  never  left 
his  name. 

Camille.     Oh,  I  remember. 
Prudence.     It  was  he. 
Camille.     Monsieur  DuvaL 
Armand.     Madam  ? 

Camille.  Bo  you  know  what  they  are  telling  me  here : — 
that  when  I  was  ill  a  year  ago,  you  called  each  day  to  learn 
how  I  was. 

Armand.     It  is  true  madam. 

Camille.     Ah,  Monsieur  Varville,  do  you  hear  that  ? 
Varville.     Why  I  haven't  known  you  a  whole  year. 
Camille.     And  Monsieur  Duval  has  known  me  just  five 
minutes.     \_N~anine  and  servants  bring  in  supper  table.] 
Prudence.      That's  right,  Nanine,  you're  a  sensible  girl. 


CAMILLE. 


13 


I  certainly  should  have  died  with  hunger  if  that  table  had  not 
appeared. 

Varville.     Adieu,  Camille,  I  am  going. 

Camille.     I  don't  believe  you. 

Varville.     You  may,  for  I  am  off. 

Camille.     When  shall  I  see  you  again  ? 

Varville.     Whenever  you  please. 

Camille.  Well,  that  is  the  most  agreeable  thing  you  have 
said  to  night.    Adieu  !  [Exit  Varville.'] 

Olimpe.  Adieu,  Monsieur  de  Varville  ;  don't  forget  your 
promise. 

Gaston.  Here,  save  your  politeness;  you  will  want  it  pre- 
sently. 

Camille.  Now,  my  friends,  to  supper.  Come,  be  seated. 
Armand  you  will  sit  next  to  me.  [They  sit  at  table] 

Prudence.  Well,  Camille,  I  think  you  treat  that  poor 
Count  de  Varville  very  badly. 

Camille.  Poor !  You  would  not  think  him  poor  if  you 
heard  him  counting  over  his  revenue. 

Olimpe.     I  wish  he  would  count  some  of  it  over  to  me. 

Gaston.  Are  you  not  satisfed,  madam,  with  your  present 
choice  ? 

Olimpe.  Well,  I  ought  to  be,  after  that  beautiful  present 
you  made  me  the  other  day.  Camille,  you  connot  guess  what 
he  gave  me  on  my  birth-day. 

Camille.     No,  what  was  it  ? 

Olimpe.     A  carriage. 

Camille  A  carriage !  I  am  sure  that  was  a  very  hand- 
some present. 

Olimpe.     But  I  have  no  horses  ;  and  he  wont  buy  me  any. 

Camille.  Never  mind — they  will  follow.  Keep  the  car- 
riage. 

Olimpe.     Alas !  it  is  only  a  candy  one. 

Gaston.  My  dear  girl,  if  you  desire  to  prove  the  sincerity 
of  your  affections,  love  me  for  myself  alone. 

Olimpe.     There's  a  modest  request. 


14 


CAMILLE, 


Prudence.     What  is  that  dish? 

Gaston.     Partridges. 

Prudence.     Give  me  some  of  them, 

Gaston.     A  wing,  you  mean. 

Prudence.     Monsieur  Gaston,  you  are  a  boy. 

Gaston.  You  must  forgive  me,  I  was  not  aware  that  ladies ' 
appetites  grew  with  their  age. 

Prudence.     Age  !     And  what  age  do  you  suppose  I  am  ? 

Gaston.  I  do  not  know.  Indeed  I  never  studied  ancient 
history.  But'  you  do  not  look  more  than  forty,  upon  my 
honor. 

Prudence.     Forty !     Thirty-six,  if  you  please. 

Gaston.  Forty  and  thirty-six.  Seventy — well,  it  does 
look  more  like  that,  I  confess. 

Prudence.  Camille,  will  you  speak  to  Monsieur  Gaston  ? 
He  is  doing  all  he  can  to  take  away  my  appetite.  And  what 
are  you  doing  there  ?  You  are  not  eating  at  all.  Hand  me 
some  oysters,  dear,  and  fill  up  Monsieur  Duval's  glass. 

Camille.     Good!     Let  us  fill  to  my  health,  Armand ! 

All     To  the  health  of  Camille  ! 

Camille.     Gaston  you  have  not  helped  Olimpe. 

Gaston.     Haven't  I  though  ? 

Prudence.  Come  sit  by  me.  I'll  help  you.  Gaston  has  no 
idea  of  how  to  administer  to  a  delicate  appetite. 

Gaston.  Madam  Prudence,  have  you  ever  had  your  throat 
examined ! 

Olimpe.  Don't  heed  him,  Madam  Duverney.  He  is 
thinking  of  Amanda's  throat,  and  the  time  she  caught  cold 
in  the  yellow  carriage. 

Camille.  Oh,  by  the  way,  yes  !  What  was  that  about  the 
yellow  carriage  ?     Do  let  me  hear  it. 

Gaston.  My  dear,  will  you  come  sit  by  me  ?  I'll  mix  a 
salad  for  you. 

Prudence.  No,  thank  you,  she  is  better  here.  Will  you 
have  another  bird,  my  dear  ? 

Gaston.     That  old  woman  must  have  a  cast-iron  stomach. 


OAMILLE.  15 


Prudence.  What  do  you  have  supper  for,  if  it  is  not  to 
eat? 

Olimpe.  Why,  you  see  Prudence,  sometimes  persons 
have  suppers  prepared  for  them  that  they  do  not  eat ;  and 
sometimes  persons  go  to  great  expense  to  have  a  supper 
served  up  in  elegant  style,  a  little  out  of  town,  and  invite  a 
beautiful  girl  to  sup  with  them  ;  and  when  they  call  to  ac- 
company her,  they  arrive  just  in  time  to  see  her  drive  off  to 
the  supper  with  another,  and  in  the  very  yellow  carriage  they 
had  bought  for  her ! 

Gaston.  Mademoiselle  Olimpe,  that  was  a  very  stupid 
story. 

Olimpe.  But  the  sequel  is  very  interesting.  Shall  I  tell 
it? 

All — (except  Gaston.)     Yes!  yes!  the  sequel. 

Camille.     Let  us  drink  to  the  hero  of  the  yellow  carriage. 

All.     To  the  hero  of  the  yellow  carriage  ! 

Gaston.  I'll  drink,  if  it's  only  for  the  sake  of  the  wine. 
Down  goes  the  yellow  carriage. 

Camille.     Now  for  a  dance.     Clear  away  the  table. 

Prudence.     I  have  not  finished  yet. 

Camille.     A  polka !     A  polka. 

f  They  dance.     Camille  grows  sick.'] 

Gaston.     What's  the  matter,  Camille  ? 

Camille.     Nothing  !     That  cough  again.     That's  all. 

Armand.     You  are  ill,  madam  ! 

Prudence.     Give  her  something  to  eat. 

Camille.  A  glass  of  water,  please.  I  will  be  better  soon. 
It  is  nothing.  See,  I  am  well  already.  Monsieur  Duval,  and 
you,  Gaston,  step  into  the  other  room,  and  before  you  have 
your  segars  lit,  I  will  be  with  you.  [Aside  to  the  ladies.] 
Go  with  them.     I  am  not  well. 

Prudence.  Yes,  let  us  leave  her.  She  is  better  alone  when 
these  attacks  arrive.  [J_sz<ie.]  It  is  always  the  way.  Just 
as  we  are  enjoying  ourselves,  on  comes  that  cough  again,  and 
all  our  fun  is  over. 

[Exeunt  Gaston,  Prudence  and  Olimpe. 


16  CAMILLE. 


Armand.     [Aside, ,]     Poor  girl ! 

Camille.     How  pale  I  am  !     Ah  ! 

Armand.     Well,  Mademoiselle,  how  do  you  feel  now  ? 

Camille.  Ah,  Monsieur  Armand,  is  it  you  ?  Better,  thank 
you.     I  have  grown  used  to  these  of  late. 

Armand.  You  are  killing  yourself.  I  would  I  had  the 
right  to  save  you  from  yourself. 

Camille.  It  is  too  late.  Why,  what's  the  matter  with 
you? 

Armand.     You  have  made  me  ill. 

Camille.  Don't  be  foolish.  Pray  go  into  the  next  room, 
and  enjoy  yourself  with  the  others.  See,  they  do  not  heed 
me. 

Armand.  Ah,  Camille,  let  me  be  your  nurse — your  doc- 
tor. I  will  guard  you  like  a  brother — shield  you  from  this 
feverish  existence,  which  is  bringing  you  to  your  grave — sur- 
round you  with  a  thousand  little  cares  that  will  make  you  in 
love  with  life — then  when  you  are  strong  and  well,  and  can 
enjoy  it,  I  will  be  as  your  guiding  star,  and  lead  your  thoughts 
to  find  content  in  a  home  more  worthy  of  you. 

Camille.  Monsieur  Duval,  if  you  would  not  offend  me,  let 
us  change  this  subject.  Do  not  deceive  yourself — you  cannot 
deceive  me.  You  are  not  speaking  to  the  cherished  daughter 
of  society ;  but  to  a  woman  of  the  world — friendless,  fearless — 
loved  by  those  whose  vanity  she  gratifies — despised  by  those 
who  ought  to  pity  her. 

Armand.     Camille,  have  you  a  heart  ? 

Camille.     Why  do  you  ask  ? 

Armand.  Because,  if  you  have,  you  could  not  make  so 
light  a  matter  of  my  words. 

Camille.     Are  you  really  serious  ? 

Armand.     Very  serious. 

Camille.     Prudence  told  me  you  were  sentimental. 

Armand.     Prudence  could  not  tell  you  how  I  love  you. 

Camille.     And  you  still  think  you  love  me  ? 

Armand.     Camille,  I  cannot  jest.     This  is  the  most  seri- 


CAMILLE,  17 


ous  moment  of  my  life.  My  destiny  is  in  your  hands.  You 
are  young,  lovely,  loveable.  The  world  in  which  you  live  is 
at  your  feet — -smiles  when  you  smile — is  gay  when  you  are 
gay.  But  does  it  weep  with  you,  and  in  your  sad  and  silent 
hours,  does  it  hover  around  you  with  its  care,  and  cheer  you 
with  its  love  ?  No  !  No !  Then  leave  this  tainted  sphere. 
It  is  not  worthy  of  you.  Listen  to  the  voice  of  one  who  truly 
loves  you.  Give  me  leave  to  find  your  heart,  and  teach  it  how 
to  throb  anew — to  make  it  my  shrine,  my  sanctuary,  my  home. 

Camille.     Are  you  sure  you  would  take  good  care  of  it  ? 

Armand.     Trust  me. 

Camille.     For  how  long  ? 

Armand.     Forever. 

Camille.     How  long  has  this  lasted  ? 

Armand.     For  two  years. 

Camille.     How  came  it  you  never  told  me  of  this  before  ? 

Armand.     I  never  knew  you  until  now. 

Camille.  You  could  very  easily  have  made  my  acquain- 
tance. When  I  was  ill,  and  you  came  each  day  to  inquire  af- 
ter me,  why  did  you  not  ask  to  see  me  ? 

Armand.     Pardon  me  ! 

Camille.     Why,  you  loved  me  then  ? 

Armand.  Yes,  too  well  to  take  a  liberty  I  would  not  al- 
low another  to  take  in  the  house  of  the  woman  I  respected. 

Camille.     So  you  really  think  you  love  me  ? 

Armand.  When  you  shall  give  me  the  right  to  say  so,  you 
will  one  day  learn  how  well. 

Camille.     It  were  better  never  told, 

Armand.     And  why  ? 

Camille*  Because  it  can  result  in  but  one  of  two  things. 
First,  that  I  will  not  believe  it ;  or,  believing  it,  cause  you  to 
wish  I  never  had.  I  am  but  a  sorrowful  companion,  at  the 
best.  Always  sick,  impatient,  nervous,  fretful — or,  if  gay, 
a  gaiety  more  terrible  than  tears — expensive,  too — a  revenue 
of  thirty  thousand  francs,  and  always  in  debt.  This  may  do 
for  the  dear  old  Duke,  who  loves  me  as  his  child,  has  plenty 


18  CAMILLE. 


of  money,  and  no  one  to  spend  it.  It  would  not  do  for  you. 
Now  we'll  talk  sense.  Give  me  your  hand.  Let  us  join  the 
others,  and  I'll  light  your  segar. 

Armand.  Excuse  me,  Camille.  Enter  if  you  will :  but 
allow  me  to  remain. 

Camille.     What's  the  matter? 

Armand.     Pardon  me.     I  am  not  well. 

Camille.     Shall  I  prescribe  for  you? 

Armand.     Speak. 

Camille.  Go  home  and  go  to  bed.  Dream  all  night  of 
some  dear  girl,  more  worthy  of  your  love  than  I.  If  indeed 
you  love  me,  you  have  wronged  yourself.  You  are  too  good 
to  be  deceived.  You  love  too  well  to  be  unloved.  But  love 
wisely.  Choose  from  a  holier  sphere  than  this  the  woman 
you  would  love.  Then  seal  that  love  upon  the  altar.  Take 
her  to  your  bosom  fresh  with  a  parent's  blessing  ;  or,  if  she 
have  none,  let  her  merit  that  of  heaven  ! 

Armand.     Camille,  have  you  ever  loved  ? 

Camille.     Never. 

Armand.  Thanks !  Thanks  !  If  you  but  knew  how  I 
have  sought  to  learn  what  you  have  told  me  in  that  little 
word — how  I  have  followed  in  your  path — how  I  have  cher- 
ished for  six  months  a  little  button  which  fell  from  your 
glove 

Camille.  I  would  not  believe  it.  I  have  heard  these  tales 
before. 

Armand.  You  are  right.  I  know  not  what  I  say.  I  am 
a  fool!     Yes,  laugh  !  I  deserve  it  all.     Good  night. 

Camille.     Armand ! 

Armand.     Did  you  call  ? 

Camille.     Let  us  not  part  in  anger. 

Armand.  Anger  !  Oh,  Camille,  if  you  could  read  my 
heart ! 

Camille.  Then  let  us  make  it  up.  Come  and  see  me  often. 
We  will  speak  of  this  again. 

Armand.     Ah,  still  you  laugh. 

Camille.     Speak,  Armand  ;  I  am  not  laughing  now. 


CAMILLE.  19 


Armand.     Will  you  be  loved  ? 

Camille.     For  how  long  ? 

Armand.     For  eternity ! 

Camille.  Alas  !  my  life  may  yet  be  happy — it  cannot  be 
long — and  short  as  it  may  be,  it  may  outlive  your  promise. 

Armand.     Now,  who  is  melancholy  ? 

Camille.  Not  I.  The  weight  that  chained  me  to  her 
throne  's  removed,  and  all  around  breathes  ecstacy  !  But  it 
grows  late,  and  you  must  away. 

Armand.     When  shall  I  see  you  again  ? 

Camille.  [Giving  him  a  camelia.]  When  this  little  flower 
is  faded,  bring  it  back  to  me  again. 

Armand.     Ah,  Camille,  you  have  made  me  blessed. 

Camille.  It  is  a  strange  flower,  Armand — pale,  scentless, 
cold ;  but  sensitive  as  purity  itself.  Cherish  it,  and  its 
beauty  will  excel  the  loveliest  flower  that  grows  ;  but  wound 
it  with  a  single  touch,  you  never  can  recal  its  bloom,  or  wipe 
away  the  stain.     Take  it,  and  remember  me.     Now  go. 

Armand.     Adieu !  [Exit.] 

Camille.  He  loves  me.  There  is  a  new  found  meaning 
in  those  simple  words  that  never  fall  upon  my  ears  before. 

[Comille  goes  to  piano  and  plays.  Singing  and  revelry 
is  heard  in  adjoining  room.  Prudence,  Olimpe  and 
Gaston  enter  dressed  fantastically  in  each  other' 's  hats 
and  bonnets.] 

Camille.     What  on  earth  have  you  been  doing  ? 

Prudence.  We  have  been  amusing  ourselves  in  honor  of 
the  new  alliance. 

Gaston.     Yes,  I  am  to  be  bride. 

Prudence.     No !  Bridesmaid,  you  mean. 

Gaston.  [Mimicking  a  lady].  If  I  can't  be  bride,  I  shan't 
be  anything  else,  I  assure  you. 

Olimpe.     Now  let's  rehearse  the  bridal  dance. 

Gaston.  Oh,  yes  !  A  dance  !  A  dance  !  Camille,  play 
for  us  ! 

[Camille  plays  on  Piano.     Fantastic  dance.] 

[end  of  act.] 


ACT   SECOND. 

Scene  : — Same  as  in  act  first. 

Nanine  and  Prudence  discovered — Camille  enters  as 

curtain  rises. 

Camille.  Ah,  Prudence,  you  are  come.  Have  you  seen 
the  Duke  ? 

Prudence.  Yes,  here  is  something  he  sent  you.  [Gives  a 
packet  of  hank  notes.']  My  dear  Camille,  can  you  lend  me 
three  or  four  hundred  francs  ?  I  am  in  need  of  a  little  money 
this  morning. 

Camille.  Here  they  are.  [Gives  money?]  Did  you  tell 
the  Duke  of  my  intention  to  go  to  the  country  ? 

Prudence.     Yes. 

Camilla     What  did  he  say  ? 

Prudence.  That  you  are  right — that  nothing  could  be 
better  for  your  health.     And  you  will  go  ? 

Camille.  I  hope  so.  I  was  to  see  that  house  to-day 
again. 

Prudence.     What  is  the  rent  of  it  ? 

Camille.     Two  thousand  francs. 

Prudence.     Camille,  this  looks  very  much  like  love. 

Camille.  I  am  afraid  it  is.  It'  certainly  is  something. 
Listen  how  my  heart  beats. 

Prudence.  Oh,  dear !  this  is  an  awful  state  of  affairs.  I 
wonder  if  its  catching  ? 

Camille.  It  is  near  ten  o'clock.  He  will  soon  be  here. 
[Boor  bell  rings.]     Ah,  'tis  he  !     Run,  Nanine,  open  the  door. 

[Exit  Nanine.] 

Prudence.     You  are  mistaken.     No  one  rang. 

Camille.  Even  so.  There  is  a  speechless  thrilling  in  my 
breast  that  tells  me  he  is  near. 

Prudence.     I  am  off. 


CAillLLE. 


21 


Camille.     Stay  till  lie  comes. 

Prudence.  Oh,  no !  I  must  go  home  and  pray  fur  you. 
You  are  in  danger. 

Camille.     Perhaps  I  am. 

[Armand  Enters.~\ 

Armand.     Camille ! 

Camille.     Armand !    I  knew  your  ring. 

Prudence.     Oh,  you  ungrateful  man  ! 

Armand.  Forgive  me,  Prudence.  I  saw  but  her  !  Are 
you  well  ? 

Prudence.  Yes,  all  are  well  now  ;  so  I  will  leave  you,  my 
children.  An  old  woman  is  like  a  doctor, — never  thought  of 
when  all  goes  well ;  but  the  first  we  send  for  when  there's  a 
wound  to  heal.  [Exit  Prudence.~\ 

Camille.     Come  sit  by  me. 

Armand.     Here  I  am. 

Camille.     Do  you  love  me  more  and  more  ? 

Armand.     No ! 

Camille.     How  ? 

Armand.     I  love  you  so  much,  I  have  no  room  for  more. 

Camille.     What  have  you  been  doing  to-day  ? 

Armand.  I  was  to  see  Prudence,  Nichette,  Gustave — 
everywhere  that  I  could  hear  your  name. 

Camille.     You  have  been  idle. 

Armand.  No,  I  wrote  to  my  father,  telling  him  he  need 
no  longer  await  me  at  Tours. 

Camille.     You  may  offend  him.     That  must  not  be. 

Armand.  No,  he  will  not  expect  me.  What  have  you 
been  doing  all  day  ? 

Camille.     Thinking  of  you. 

Armand.     True  ? 

Camille.     True!     And  manufacturing  grand  projects. 

Armand.     What  were  they  ? 

Camille.     I  must  not  tell. 

Armand.     I  have  no  secrets  from  you. 

Camille.     Listen.     I  cannot  tell  you  at  present  what  my 


22 


CAMILLE. 


projects  are ;  but  should  they  succeed,  I  can  tell  you  their 
result. 

Armand.     What  will  it  be  ? 

Camille.    To  bring  me  nearer  you. 

Armand.     Oh,  tell  me  how. 

Camille.  By  passing  the  summer  months  together  in  some 
quiet  spot  in  the  country.  In  a  few  days  from  this  I  shall 
know  the  result,  and  you  shall  know  the  cause.  Till  then 
you  must  not  ask  me. 

Armand.  And  is  it  you  alone,  Camille,  who  have  formed 
these  projects? 

Camille.     What  a  strange  question. 

Armand.     Answer  me. 

Camille.     Well,  'tis  I  alone. 

Armand.     And  you  alone  who  will  execute  them  ? 

Camille.     I,  alone. 

Armand.     Camille,  have  you  ever  read  Manon  Lescaut  ? 

CamiUe.     I  have. 

Armand.     Do  you  remember  the  story  of  Manon  ? 

Camille.     It  has  been  some  time  since  I  read  the  book. 

Armand.  I  will  remind  you.  She  loved  a  young  man, 
who  loved  her  as  his  wife ;  but  who  was  poor — too  poor  to 
meet  the  large  expense  her  taste  and  style  demanded.  She, 
too,  formed  a  project,  and  named  it  to  a  wealthy  friend,  who 
gladly  aided  it — gave  her  all  she  asked — and  while  she 
thanked  him  for  the  wealth  he  had  bestowed  upon  her,  she 
smiled  upon  another,  upon  whom  she  lavished  it.  Camille, 
you  are  too  truthful  to  be  that  woman ;  and  I  am  too  honora 
ble  to  be  that  man. 

Camille.     What  does  this  mean  ? 

Armand.  That  if  your  schemes  at  all  resemble  hers,  I 
will  not  be  a  partner  in  them. 

Camille.  Good.  Let  us  change  the  theme.  It  has  been 
a  beautiful  day  ? 

Armand.     [Looking  out  of  windoiv.~]     Beautiful ! 

Camille.     The  Champs  Elysees  crowded? 

Armand.     Crowded ! 

Camille.     Change  of  the  moon  to-night,  I  believe  ? 


CAMILLE.  23 


Armand.  Devil  take  the  moon.  Camille,  I  am  not  think- 
ing of  the  moon. 

CamiUe.     Neither  am  I. 

Armand.  "What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  You  know  that 
I  am  jealous  of  your  very  thoughts,  and  what  you  told  me  a 
moment  ago 

Camille.     Are  we  sroin^  to  have  a  second  edition   of  that 


book  ?  Listen  to  me.  1  love  you,  I  never  told  you  so  he- 
fore.  For  that  love  I  ask  your  confidence.  You  are  not  jea- 
lous of  that  poor  old  man.  the  Duke.  You  know  the  sacred 
sentiments  which  hind  him  to  my  interests.  That  I  am  not 
where  he  would  place  me,  was  the  fault  of  those  who  drove 
me  from  it.  It  was  no  act  of  his.  Could  he  see  me  where  he 
would  have  me,  his  aged  heart  would  know  another  joy.  Let 
me  have  my  way.  It  shall  lead  me  to  your  love,  he  sure  J  Is 
it  all  right? 

Armand.    But — hut — 

Camille.     Come — come!     Savitis. 

*/ 

Armand.     No,  not  yet. 

Camille.     Then,  good  night. 

Armand.  Good  night !  Wky  you  would  not  send  me 
away  so  soon  ? 

Camille.     Xo — no;  but — you  may  remain  a  little  longer. 

Armand.  Perhaps  you  are  expecting  some  one  ? 

Camille.     Are  we  going  to  commence  again  ? 

Armand.     You  will  not  deceive  me  now. 

Camille.     How  lon^  have  I  known  vou? 

Armand.     Four  days. 

Camille.  If  I  did  not  love  you,  I  would  not  know  you 
one.     So  if  you  love  me,  say  good  night,  and  don't  complain. 

Armand.     Oh,  forgive  me. 

Camille.  If  this  continues,  I  shall  spend  my  life  in  for- 
giving you. 

Armand.     Xo — no  !     It  is  my  last  offence.     Good-night. 

Camille.  Come  early  to-morrow,  and  we  will  breakfast 
together. 

Armand.     Once  more,  good-night !  [Exit.] 


24  •        CAMILLE. 


Camille.  Life  !  Life  !  You  are  a  puzzle  !  Who  would 
have  made  me  believe  four  days  ago,  that  that  man,  a  stranger 
to  me,  would,  to-day  so  occupy  my  heart  and  thought  ?  Can 
this  be  love;  or  is  it  madness?  Does  he  indeed  love  me? 
Can  he  forget  what  I  have  been  and  what  I  am.  Ah,  that 
past — this  present — if  I  could  tear  it  from  my  heart !  Ar- 
mand,  why — why  have  you  come  across  my  path  ?  I  was 
happy  till  you  came  ;  and  now — oh  1  I  dare  not  think  of 
what  I  am !  Yet  in  this  struggle  between  hope  and  fear, 
there's  something  whispers  me  of  happier  hours.  I  love,  and 
I  am  loved!  Ah,  there  is  wealth  enough  of  joy  in  those 
dear  words  to  cancel  an  eternity  of  care! 
\Nanine  enters,  announces  "  Monsieur  le  Count  de  Varville, ' ' 
and  Exits.     Enter   Varville']. 

Camille.     Good  evening,  Count. 

Varville.  Good  evening,  Camille.  You  are  looking  charm- 
ing !     Are  you  well  ? 

Camille.     Very. 

Varville.     You  got  my  note  ? 

Camille.     I  did. 

Varville.      Just  half-past  ten  o'clock.      [Looking  at   Mb 
watch.]     You  see  I  am  punctual. 

Camille.     You  wrote  me  that  you  wished  to  speak  with 
me  on  business. 

Varville.     Yes.     Have  you  been  to  supper  ? 

Camille.     Why  do  you  ask  ? 

Varville.     Because,  if  you  will  come  and  sup  with  me,  we 
can  talk  this  matter  over  in  quiet. 

Camille.     Are  you  very  hungry  ? 

Varville.     Yes,  I  am.     That  dinner  at  the  club  has   quite 
given  me  an  appetite. 

Camille.     What  are  they  doing  at  the  club  to-night  ? 

Varville.     Playing,  when  I  left. 

Camille.     Who  won? 

Varville.     Monsieur  Gaston,  whom  I  met  here  the  other 
night.     Apropos,  who  was  that  odd-looking  sort  of  person — 


CAMILLE.  25 


Monsieur — Monsieur  something,  that  Prudence  introduced  ? 

Camille.  That  gentleman  was  Monsieur  Armand  Duval, 
my  friend. 

Varville.     Apropos,  did  any  one  leave  here  as  I  entered  ? 

Camille.     Not  that  I  know  of.     Who  was  it  ? 

Varville.  That  is  precisely  what  I  should  like  to  know. 
As  I  ascended  from  the  carriage,  some  one  watched  me  until 
I  reached  the  door,  and  when  he  saw  my  face,  he  hurried 
away  as  if  I  had  been  a  creditor. 

Camille.  Well,  Count,  let's  to  business.  What  have  you 
got  to  say  to  me  ? 

Varville.     Camille,  who  are  your  creditors  ? 

Camille.     I  have  not  the  remotest  idea. 

Varville.  Why,  you  told  me  that  you  were  twenty  thou- 
sand francs  in  debt.     Is  it  paid  ? 

Camille.     Not  that  I  know  of. 

Varville.     But  you  know  the  parties  to  whom  you  owe  it  ? 

Camille.  I  have  not  that  honor,  personally.  I  know  their 
address. 

Varville.     Where  is  it  ? 

Camille.     Somewhere  there.     \_Hands  an  account  book.'] 

Varville.  Yes,  here  it  is  all  summed  up.  Twenty — why 
here  are  ten  more.     It  is  thirty  thousand  francs  ! 

Camille.  Why  so  it  is  !  I  had  forgotten.  Count,  have  I  not 
kept  those  accounts  in  very  fine  order  ? 

Varville.  Yes,  they  appear  to  be  in  a  remarkable  state  of 
preservation. 

Camille.     They  will  look  better  when  receipted. 

Varville.     And  is  it  necessary  that  they  should  be  paid? 

Camille.     Absolutely. 

Varville.  Camille,  suppose  you  charge  me  with  this  little 
affair !     I  am  very  idle,  and  want  something  to  do. 

Camille.  Oh,  Monsieur  de  Varville,  it  may  occupy  your 
time  too  much.  But  since  you  will  have  it  so,  the  exercise 
may  do  you  good. 

Varville.     Will  you  have  the  receipt  now  ? 

Camille.     No — no  ;  you  may  bring  it  in  a  week  or  so. 


26  CAMILLE. 


Varville.  [Aside.]  A  week  or  so  !  Varville,  you  have 
been  a  fool ! 

Enter  Nanine. 

Nanine.  Madam,  a  man  brought  this  letter,  and  said  that 
it  must  reach  you  immediately. 

Camille.  Who  can  write  to  me  at  this  hour  ?  [Looks  at 
the  letter.]  Armand  !  What  can  this  mean  ?  [Heads.]  "  Ma- 
clam,  I  cannot  be  trifled  with  even  by  the  woman  whom  I 
love.  At  the  very  moment  that  I  quitted  your  house,  the 
Count  de  Varville  entered  it.  I  am  neither  a  Count  nor  a 
millionaire.  Forgive  me,  if  in  my  poverty  I  have  been  too 
bold.  Let  us  foro-et  that  we  ever  met,  or  that  we  ever  thought 
we  loved.  When  you  receive  this  letter,  I  shall  have  quitted 
Paris.    Armand." 

Nanine.     Is  there  any  answer,  madam  ? 

Camille.  None !  It  is  well.  [Exit  Nanine.]  Another 
dream  dispelled.  I  have  deserved  it.  I  should  have  known 
better  !     What  had  I  to  do  with  love  ?     Oh,  I  am  sick. 

Varville.     What  was  in  that  letter,  Camille  ? 

Camille.  Good  news  for  you,  Count.  You  have  gained 
thirty  thousand  francs. 

Varville.  It  is  the  first  letter  of  the  kind  that  ever  came 
my  way  !     But  how  ? 

Camille.  You  need  not  attend  to  that  little  affair  for  me. 
I  like  to  be  in  debt.     It  occupies  my  mind. 

Varville.     Have  your  creditors  died  ? 

Camille.     Worse  than  that !  I  was  in  love. 

Varville.     You  ? 

Camille.     I ! 

Varville.     With  whom  ? 

Camille.  One  who  did  not  love  me,  as  often  happens  !  A 
man  who  is  poor,  as  always  happens  !  [Gives  him  the  letter.'] 
Read! 

Varville.  [Aside.-]  Phew  !  I  understand  now  why  those 
debts  no  longer  trouble  you.  [Aloud.]  My  dear  Camille, 
this  is  indeed  too  bad,  and  from  &  friend,  too  !  So  Monsieur 
Duval,  it  appears,  is  very  jealous. 


CAMILLE. 


27 


Camille.     You  have  invited  me  to  supper  ? 

Varville.     I  have.    We  are  waited  for. 

Camille.     Come,  I  want  air. 

Varville.  [Aside.]  This  begins  to  look  serious.  [Aloud.'] 
Camille,  you  are  agitated.     What  is  the  matter  ? 

Camille.  Nothing.  Nanine  !  Nanine  !  my  shawl  and  bon- 
net !     Quick ! 

Enter  Nanine. 

Nanine.     Which,  Madam  ? 

Camille.     Any  one  at  all.     A  light  shawl  will  answer. 

[Exit  Nanine. 

Varville.     You  will  be  cold. 

Camille.     Cold  !     I  am  on  fire  ! 

[Enter  Nanine,  with  shawl  and  bonnet.]  ] 

Nanine.    Shall  I  sit  up  for  you,  Madam  ? 

Camille.  No,  retire.  I  will  not  return  until  late.  Come, 
Count,  come  !  [Exeunt  Camille  and  Varville. 

Nanine.  There  is  something  very  strange  going  on  here. 
Camille  is  very  much  excited.  It  was  that  letter,  I  know, 
that  did  it  all.  Ah,  here  it  is !  [  Takes  uv  the  letter  from 
table  andreads.]  So,  so, — MonsieurDuval — that  ishow  you  do. 
Going  to  quit  Paris  !  That  is  a  very  good  sign,  I  never  knew 
a  lover  of  Camille  who  vowed  he  was  going  to  leave  Paris  on 
her  account  that  did  not  keep  me  answering  the  bell  for  three 
months  after.  [Enter  Prudence^]  Ah,  good  evening,  Ma- 
dam Duverney. 

Prudence.     Where  is  Camille  ? 

Nanine.  She  has  just  gone  out  to  sup  with  the  Count  de 
Varville. 

Prudence.     She  received  a  letter  a  few  minutes  since  ? 

Nanine     She  did :  it  was  from  Monsieur  Duval. 

Prudence.     What  did  he  say  ? 

Nanine.     Nothing. 

Prudence.     When  will  she  return  ? 

Nanine.  I  do  not  know.  She  said  I  might  retire — that 
she  would  not  return  early.  I  thought  you  had  retired  long 
ago. 


28  CAMILLE. 


Prudence.  So  I  had,  and  fast  asleep,  when  I  was  awak- 
ened by  a  pulling  of  the  bell  which  is  sounding  in  my  ears 
ever  since.  So  Camille  is  gone  out,  is  she  ?  I  thought  that 
letter  would  make  mischief. 

Camille.  [  Entering  quickly. ~\  Give  me  my  mantle, 
ISTanine  ;  this  shawl's  too  light.  [Exit  Nanine.  To  Pru- 
dence.^    Oh,  how  you  frightened  me  !     What's  the  matter  ? 

Prudence.  That  is  just  what  I  want  to  know.  [Points 
to  window.~\     Armand  is  there. 

Camille.     Well,  what  is  that  to  me. 

Prudence.     He  wishes  to  see  you. 
Enter  Nanine,  with   mantle,  which  she  places  on     Camille  s 
shoulders. 

Camille.  What  for  ?  I  do  not  wish  to  see  him.  Good- 
night.    The  Count  is  waiting  for  me. 

Prudence.  Stay,  Camille  ;  you  had  better  see  him.  He 
is  very  unhappy  ;  and  better  that  you  should  explain  this 
matter  to  him  than  that  he  should  demand  an  explanation 
from  the  Count. 

Camille.  He  has  changed  his  mind,  then  !  I  thought  he 
had  quitted  Paris  ? 

Prudence.    Camille,  have  you  forgotten  that  he  loves  you  ? 

Camille.     Give  me  my  mantle,  Nanine,  I  must  go. 

Nanine.     You  have  it,  Madam. 

Camille.     That  man  has  almost  killed  me. 

Prudence.  Then  perhaps  you  had  better  not  see  him  again. 
Let  him  go,  and  let  matters  rest  where  they  are. 

Camille.    [  Weeping.]    That  is  your  advice  ? 

Prudence.     It  is. 

Camille.     What  else  did  he  say  ? 

Prudence.  That  he  will  tell  you  himself.  I  see  how  it  is. 
Love — this  love — the  more  you  fan  it,  the  more  it  burns. 
[Calls  at  window.']  Armand !  [To  Camille.']  But  the 
Count? 

Camille.     He  will  wait. 

Prudence.     Had  you  not  better  send  him  away  at  once  ? 


CAMILLE.  29 

Camille.  You  are  right.  Nanine,  go  tell  Mon.  de  Var- 
ville  that  I  am  not  well — that  I  cannot  go  out  to  night — that 
he  must  excuse  me. 

JVanine.     Yes,  Madam.  [Exit, 

Camille.     I  feel  better  now. 

Prudence.  [At  window. ~\  Armand,  come  !  He  will  not 
require  a  second  invitation,  I  dare  say. 

Camille.    You  will  stay  here  until  he  comes. 

Prudence.  No,  I  thank  you.  I  will  go  and  finish  my 
dreams,  and  leave  you  to  begin  yours  again.  Oh,  dear !  It 
seems  as  if  the  world  was  on  fire,  and  all  the  bells  were  ring- 
ing in  my  head.  [Exit. 

Nanine.    [Entering. ~\     The  Count  has  gone,  Madam. 

Camille.     What  did  he  say  ? 

Nanine.     Nothing ;  but  he  appeared  very  much  annoyed. 

[Exit. 
[Enter  Armand.~\ 

Armand.     Ah,  Camille  can  you  forgive  me  ? 

Camille.  Do  you  deserve  it  ?  Why  did  you  write  me  that 
cruel  letter  ?     You  have  made  me  ill. 

Armand.  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  I  saw  the  Count 
de  Yarville  enter  here  the  very  moment  you  had  hurried  me 
away.  I  knew  not  what  I  did.  I  could  scarce  believe  my 
eyes.  I  wrote  that  letter — sent  it.  Forgive  me,  then,  and 
remember,  Camille,  though  I  have  known  you  only  a  few 
days,  I  have  loved  you  two  years. 

Camille.  Armand,  from  the  first  hour  I  met  you,  I  have 
nourished  the  thought  of  passing  the  summer  with  you,  far 
from  Paris — far  from  the  world.  I  said  to  myself,  at  the  end 
of  three  months  of  his  companionship  and  care,  I  will  be  re- 
stored to  health  and  peace  of  mind.  I  will  try  to  win  his 
friendship — be  worthy  his  esteem — and,  on  our  return  to 
Paris,  instead  of  the  hollow  hearts  and  serpent  tongues  that 
crowd  around  me  now,  Armand  shall  be  my  only  friend,  pro- 
tector, brother !  And  so  I  dreamed,  and  dreamed,  until  that 
letter  woke  me.  We  must  part.  My  position  forbids  me 
seeing  you  again,  and  every  thing  forbids  me  loving  you. 


80  CAMILLE. 


Armand.  Camille,  you  never  loved  me,  or  the  Count  had 
not  been  here  to-night. 

Camille.  Another  reason  why  you  should  not  love  me. 
You  have  position,  friends,  honor — be  wise.  I  have  neither. 
I  am  young,  gay,  reckless,  desperate — my  name  the  sport  of 
every  tongue  in  Paris.  If  you  will  know  me,  take  what  is 
good  of  me,  and  leave  the  rest. 

Armand.     It  was  not  thus  you  talked  an  hour  ago. 

Camille.     True  !    I  have  reflected  since. 

Armand.  Camille,  I  love  you.  The  feeling  that  I  enter- 
tain for  you  has  become  a  part  of  me.  My  destiny  hung  up- 
on your  love.  Thinking  I  had  won  it,  I  soared  upon  my  hopes 
beyond  my  height,  and  it  is  in  falling  from  them  that  I  am 
crushed.  Since  it  is  so,  let  us  part.  Farewell !  You  do  not 
love  me. 

Camille.  Oh,  you  know  not  what  you  say.  Stay  !  I  would 
speak  to  you ;  but  dare  not. 

Armand.     Speak,  Camille,  I  listen. 

Camille.  Armand,  every  heart  has  its  silent  hours,  and  so 
has  mine;  and  in  those  hours,  I  often  sit  and  think  there  is  a 
happier  life  than  the  one  I  lead,  if  I  could  but  find  it.  And 
there  are  moments  when  visions  of  a  future  flit  across  my 
brain.  I  think  if  I  can  lend  a  charm  to  such  a  life  as  this, 
and  win  the  admiration  and  respect  of  the  worthless  crowd 
who  follow  me,  what  would  it  be  in  the  sacred  circle  of  a  home, 
among  those  who  loved  and  cherished  me  ?  Can  such  a  fu- 
ture be  in  store  for  me,  I  ask.  And  then  the  past  spreads 
o'er  me,  like  a  pall.  A  merry  laugh  bursts  forth  in  mock- 
ery, and  I  am  gay  again. 

Armand.     Go  on. 

Camille.  Day  follows  day, — and  so  I  live.  I  have  admi- 
rers— lovers,  if  you  will — the  first  in  their  vanity,  the  last  in 
their  esteem.  Friends,  too,  like  Prudence.  And  so  the  tide 
of  time  glides  on,  one  stream  of  vanity,  shame,  and  lies.  You 
came,  and  with  you  many  an  untold  hope.  I  heard  your 
voice — I  saw  your  tears — and  built  my  faith  upon  your  love. 


CAMILLE.  31 


Then  I  dreamed  of  innocence — of  purity.  Your  letter  came 
next,  and  with  it  came  reproach.  Two  years  ago  I  last  heard 
reproach.  A  poor,  friendless,  sickly  girl,  disgusted  with  that 
world  where  she  had  sold  her  smiles  for  gold,  had  dared  to 
enter  the  abode  of  peace — the  charmed  circle  of  society. 
Whatever  her  history  had  been,  Jong-suffering  had  purified 
her  thoughts — her  heart  was  pure — she  sinned  no  more.  But 
society  was  outraged.  With  iron  hand  it  flung  her  from  its 
shore,  and  left  her,  beaconless,  upon  the  sea  where  she  is 
wrecked  ! 

Armand.     These  words  are  not  for  me. 

Camille.  No  ;  but  these  words  are  for  me.  [Points,  to 
letter.']  They  warn  me  of  another  blast.  I  know  my  safety, 
and  will  not  peril  it.  Why  should  I,  and  for  what  ?  For 
jeers,  contempt,  and  scorn'.'  No,  no,  no — I  have  tried  that. 
That  is  your  way,  this  is  mine. 

Enter  JVanine,  quickly,  with  a  letter. 

Nanine.     A  letter,  Madam. 

Camille.     Who  sent  it  ? 

Nanine.     The  Count  de  Varville. 

Armand.  [Suddenly.]  The  Count  de  Varville!  Now^ 
Camille,  this  is  the  touchstone  of  your  worth !  My  life — your 
honor,  hang  upon  your  answer  ! 

[Camille  tears  letter,  and  throws  if  toward  Nanine.'] 

Camille.     Give  him  that  I 

[Throws  herself  on  Armand' '$  breast] 


[end  of  act.] 


ACT    THIRD. 

Scene  : — A  room  in  a  Country  House. 
Naxixe  Discovered. 

Prudence.     [Entering^     Where  is  Camille  ? 

Nanine.  She  is  in  the  garden,  with  Mademoiselle  Nichette 
and  Monsieur  Gustave.  Monsieur  Arniand  has  gone  to  Paris, 
and  they  have  come  to  spend  the  day  with  Madam.         [Exit. 

Prudence.     I  will  join  them. 

Camille.  [Entering^]  Ah,  Prudence,  you  are  come.  Is 
all  arranged? 

Prudence.     Yes  ;  or  soon  will  be,  I  hope. 

Camille.     Where  are  the  papers  ? 

Prudence.  Here  they  are.  The  man  will  be  here  to-day 
to  see  if  they  are  right.  So  I  will  go  to  dinner  ;  for  I  am 
dying  of  hunger. 

Enter  Nichette  and  Gustave. 

Camille.  Come,  sit  down.  Tell  me  :  how  do  you  like  the 
way  we  live  here  ? 

Nichette.     Oh,  I  think  you  must  be  very  happy  ! 

Camille.     You  are  right — I  am. 

Nichette.  And  you  are  right,  Camille,  when  you  say  that 
happiness  is  in  the  heart.  How  often  have  I  said  to  Gustave, 
I  wish  Camille  would  meet  with  some  one  who  would  love  and 
cherish  her — who  would  win  her  from  the  feverish  life  she 
leads,  and  teach  her  contentment  in  one  more  tranquil  and 
enduring. 

Camille.  Well,  you  have  your  wish.  I  love — and  I  am 
happy. 

Nichette.  Oh,  it  is  so  sweet  to  be  happy  ?  And  we  are  all 
happy,—are  we  not,  Gustave  ? 


CAMILLE.  33 


Gustave.  I  believe  we  are.  If,  before  to-day,  Nichette 
and  I  nave  bad  a  separate  wish,  it  was,  Camille,  to  see  you 
wbere  you  are. 

Camille.     Thanks,  Gustave. 

Nichette.  After  all,  happiness  does  not  cost  much,  if  one 
can  only  find  the  right  material.  If  you  could  but  see  where 
X  live — two  little  chambers  in  the  fifth  story,  in  La  Rue 
Blanche — a  window  that  overlooks  half  of  Paris — a  trellis, 
where  I  have  planted  a  geranium,  the  first  flower  Gustave  ever 
gave  me — and  how  it  grows  ! — no  wonder,  for  I  sit  and  sew  by 
it,  and  watch  it  all  day.  Oh,  you  should  see  my  little  home. 
It  is  so  cozey — -just  large  enough  to  hold  content. 

Gustave.     It  must  like  going  up-stairs  better  than  I  do. 

Nichette.  Camille,  do  you  hear  that  saucy  fellow  ?  You 
cannot  guess  what  he  wants  me  to  do — to  quit  embroidering, 
and  not  work  any  more.     He  will  buy  me  a  carriage  next. 

Gustave.  That  will  come.  Then,  Camille,  you  will  drive 
out  with  us, — will  you  not? 

Camille.     Yes,  Gustave,  that  I  will. 

Nichette.  Oh,  we  will  have  such  a  time  !  You  must  know 
that  Gustave  has  a  rich  old  uncle,  who  is  going  to  make  him 
his  heir.  But  I  forgot  to  tell  you — Gustave  is  a  lawyer  now, 
if  you  please  ! 

Camille.     Indeed, — you  shall  plead  my  first  case. 

Nichette.     Oh,  he  has  pleaded  already  ! 

Camille.     Did  he  gain  ? 

Gustave.  No.  My  client  was  condemned  to  ten  years'  hard 
labor. 

Nichette.     Yes  !     I  was  there, — and  I  was  so  glad ! 

Camille.     Glad!     Why  so  ? 

Nichette.  Because  the  man  deserved  it.  I  don't  believe 
in  those  great  men  who  fold  their  arms  and  say  :  " Gentle- 
men, I  have  had,  in  my  time,  the  case  of  a  man  who  had  kill- 
ed a  father,  a  mother,  and  her  children !  Well,  sirs,  I  worked 
at  that  case  night  and  day,  until  I  gained  it.  He  was  acquit- 
ted. But  I  confess  it  cost  me  a  great  deal  of  labor — and  in 
3 


34 


CAMILLE. 


all  modesty,  I  say,  that  nothing  short  of  the  most  sublime  tal- 
ents could  have  restored  that  ornament  to  the  society  which 
he  had  adorned." 

Camille.  And  now  that  he  is  a  lawyer,  Nichette  will  soon 
be  a  bride.     Is  it  not  so  ? 

NicJiette.     If  he  behaves  himself. 

Gustave.  You  hear  the  conditions.  Then,  Camille,  may 
we  not  hope  that  you,  too,  may  be  a  bride  some  day  ? 

Camille.     The  bride  of  whom  ? 

Gustave.     Of  Armand. 

Camille.  Armand  !  That  can  never  be  !  Armand  would 
marry  me  to-morrow  if  I  would  have  it  so  ;  but  I  love  him  too- 
well  to  merit  his  reproach. 

Gustave.     Camille,  you  are  so  generous. 

Camille.  Not  generous,  Gustave,  but  just.  The  woman 
does  not  love  the  man  she  would  degrade.  There  are  impres- 
sions made  in  life  which  time  may  erase  from  the  memory, 
but  never  from  the  heart.  My  past  is  there.  A  sea  of  tears 
could  not  wash  one  pang  away,  which  tells  me  I  am  unworthy 
to  be  Armand  Duval's  wife.  But  let  us  talk  of  something 
else.  I  have  so  much  happiness,  why  ask  for  more  ?  To  be 
near  the  man  I  love — to  hear  his  voice — to  know  his  truth  ! 
— Oh  my  dream  of  life  has  grown  so  blissful,  peaceful,  calm, 
I  would  not  dare  to  wake  it  by  wearying  heaven  with  a  wish 
beyond  the  present. 

NicJiette.  How  do  you  pass  the  time,  Camille  ? 

Camille.  I  really  cannot  tell — it  flies  so  fast.  After  taking 
a  long  walk,  with  Armand,  I  read  to  him  or  he  reads  to  me. 
Then  I  feed  my  birds,  and  listen  to  them  sing.  I  often  sit  by 
him  and  sew,  while  he  talks  to  me  of  the  future,  until  I  think  I 
I  am  in  another  world.  And  then,  as  you  have  just  seen,. 
in  this  simple  dress,  with  my  great  straw  hat,  I  skip  along 
the  fields,  or  sail  upon  the  water  by  his  side,  I  feel  I  am  a 
child  again  I  And  when  sad  thoughts  steal  by  me,  as  they  often 
do,  I  wrap  myself  up  in  Armand 's  love,  and  all  is  bright  again  I 

Gustave.     I  begin  to  think  Nichette  does  not  love  me. 


CAMILLE.  35 

Camille.     Because — 

Gustave.  Because  she  does  not  talk  of  me  as  you  do  of 
Armand. 

Camille.  She  has  no  need.  You  are  hers — the  jewel  of 
her  life — while  mine  is  only  lent.  I  may  admire  but  dare 
not  hope  to  own  it.  But  let  that  pass.  Are  not  these  sweet 
flowers  which  Armand  gave  me  this  morning  ?  I  used  to 
spend  as  much  in  boquets  as  would  have  kept  a  poor  family 
a  whole  year ;  and  now,  these  simple  sprays  culled  by  his 
hand,  seem  to  load  the  air  with  perfume.  Oh,  how  happy  I 
am.     But  you  do  not  know  all. 

Nichette.     What  can  it  be  ? 

Gustave.     Who  says  Nichette  is  curious  ? 

Camille.  You  said  awhile  ago  that  I  should  see  your  home. 
Perhaps  I  will  see  it  soon.  Unknown  to  Armand,  I  am  going 
to  sell  my  house  in  Paris,  pay  all  my  debts — rent  an  apart- 
ment near  yours — furnish  it  precisely  the  same — and  we 
will  live  together  forgetting  and  forgotten.  In  the  summer 
we  will  live  in  the  country,  hire  a  little  cottage — do  all  our 
own  work — live   alone — and   who  will   be  happier  than  we  ? 

Nichette.  How  strange  that  is.  That  is  just  what  Gus- 
tave and  I  were  wishing  to-day  that  you  would  do. 

Nanine.  [Entering.']  Madam,  there  is  a  gentleman  in 
the  hall  who  wishes  to  see  to  you. 

Camille.  You  see  I  did  not  jest.  That  is  the  man  who 
has  charge  of  the  sale.  So  walk  into  the  garden,  you  and 
Gustave.  He  will  soon  be  gone,  and  I  will  join  you.  [Exit 
Gustave  and  Nichette.']     Bid  him  enter. 

[Exit  JVanine.     Enter  Duval.] 

Duval.     Mademoiselle  Camille  Gauthier  ? 

Camille.  It  is  I,  Monsieur.  To  whom  have  I  the  honor  of 
speaking  ? 

Duval.     To  Monsieur  Duval. 

Camille.     To  Monsieur  Duval  ? 

Duval.     Yes,  Mademoiselle,  the  father  of  Armand. 

Camille.     Monsieur  Armand  is  not  here,  sir. 


36  CAMILLE. 


Duval.  I  know  it.  But  it  is  with  you  that  I  would  speak, 
and  I  wish  you  to  listen.  You  are  not  only  compromising 
but  ruining  my  son. 

Camille.  You  are  deceived,  sir.  I  am  here  beyond  the 
reach  of  scandal ;  and  I  accept  nothing  from  your  son. 

Duval.  Which  means  that  he  has  fallen  so  low  as  to  be  a 
sharer  of  the  gain  which  you  accept  from  others. 

Camille.  Pardon  me,  sir.  I  am  a  woman,  and  in  my  own 
house, — two  reasons  that  should  plead  in  my  behalf  to  your 
more  generous  courtesy. .  The  tone  in  which  you  addressed 
me  is  not  what  I  have  been  accustomed  to,  and  more  than  I 
can  listen  to  from  a  gentleman  whom  I  have  the  honor  to  see 
for  the  first  time.     I  pray  you  will  allow  me  to  retire. 

Duval.  Stay,  Madam,  when  one  finds  himself  face  to 
face  with  you,  it  is  hard  to  think  those  things  are  so.  Oh,  I 
was  told  that  you  were  a  dangerous  woman. 

Camille.     Yes,  sir  !  dangerous  to  myself. 

Duval.  It  is  not  less  true,  however,  that  you  are  ruining 
my  son. 

Camille.  Sir,  I  repeat,  with  all  the  respect  I  have  for  Ar- 
mand's  father,  that  you  are  wrong. 

Duval.  Then  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  letter  to  my 
lawyer,  which  apprises  me  of  Armand's  intention  to  dispose 
of  his  property,  the  gift  of  a  dying  mother?  [Gfives  her  a 
letter.'] 

Camille.  1  assure  you,  sir,  that  if  this  is  Armand's  act, 
he  has  done  so  without  my  knowledge ;  for  he  knew  well  that 
had  he  offered  such  a  gift,  I  would  refuse  it. 

Duval.     Indeed,  you  have  not  always  spoken  thus  ! 

Camille.     True,  sir ;  but  I  have  not  always  loved. 

Duval.     And  now — 

Camille.     I  am  now  no  longer  what  I  was. 

Duval.     These  are  very  fine  words. 

Camille.  What  can  I  say  to  convince  you  ?  I  swear  by 
the  love  I  bear  your  son,  the  holiest  thing  that  ever  filled  my 
heart,  that  I  was  ignorant  of  the  transaction. 

Duval.     Still  you  must  live  by  some  means  ? 


CAMILLE. 


Camille.  You  force  [me,  sir,  to  be  explicit.  So  far  from 
resembling  other  associations  of  my  life,  this  has  made  me 
penniless.  I  pray  you  read  that  paper.  [Handing  a  paper.'] 
It  contains  a  list  of  all  that  I  possess  on  earth.  "When 
you  were  announced  just  now,  I  thought  you  were  the  person 
to  whom  I  had  sold  them. 

Duval.  A  bill  of  sale  of  all  your  furniture,  pictures,  plate, 
&c,  with  which  to  pay  your  creditors — the  surplus  to  be  re- 
turned to  you.     Have  I  been  deceived  ? 

Camille.  You  have,  sir.  I  know  that  my  life  has  been 
clouded — my  name  as  a  forbidden  word.  I  have  not  forgot- 
ten that.  Oh,  no,  no !  It  is  traced  upon  my  heart  in 
colors  that  can  never  fade.  The  love  I  bear  your  son  but 
magnifies  their  form,  which  I  would  give  the  last  drop  of  my 
blood  to  cancel  or  efface.  Oh,  you  do  not  know  me,  sir? 
You  can  never  know  how  purely  I  do  love  your  son,  and  how 
he  loves  me !  It  is  his  love  which  has  saved  me  from  myself 
and  made  me  what  I  am.  I  have  been  so  happy  for  three 
months !  And  you,  sir,  are  his  father.  You  are  good,  I  am 
sure.  I  know  you  would  not  harm  me.  Then  let  me  entreat  you 
will  not  tell  him  ill  of  me,  or  he  will  believe  you,  for  he  loves 
you  so ;  and  I  also  love  and  honor  you,  because  you  are  his 
father  ! 

Duval.  Pardon  me  for  the  manner  in  which  I  presented 
myself  to  you.  I  was  angry  at  my  son  for  his  ingratitude  to 
his  dead  mother,  in  disposing  of  her  gift  to  him.  I  pray  you, 
pardon. 

Camille.  Oh,  sir,  it  is  you  who  have  all  to  pardon.  I  can 
only  bless  you  for  those  kind  words.     I  pray  you  take  a  chair. 

Duval.  It  is  in  the  name  of  these  sentiments,  which,  you 
say,  are  so  sacred  to  you,  that  I  am  about  to  ask  of  you  a 
sacrifice  greater  than  any  you  have  yet  performed. 

Camille.     Oh,  heaven ! 

Duval.  Listen,  my  child,  and  patiently,  to  what  I  have  to 
say. 

Camille.  Oh,  sir,  I  pray  you  let  us  speak  no  more.  I 
know  you  are  going  to  ask  me  something  terrible.    I  have  been 


38  CAMILLE. 


expecting  this.  I  was  too  happy.  Yet  over  my  brightest 
hour  there  has  always  hung  a  cloud.  It  was  the  shadow  of 
your  frown. 

Duval.  Camille,  I  am  not  going  to  chide,  but  supplicate. 
You  love  my  son — so  do  I.  We  are  both  desirous  of  his  hap- 
piness— jealous  of  those  who  could  contribute  to  it  more  than 
we.  I  speak  to  you  as  a  father,  and  ask  of  you  the  happi- 
ness of  both  my  children. 

Camille.     Of  both  your  children  ? 

Duval.  Yes,  Camille,  of  both.  I  have  a  daughter,  young, 
beautiful,  and  pure  as  an  angel.  She  loves  as  you  do.  That 
love  has  been  the  dream  of  her  life.  But  the  family  of  the 
man  about  to  marry  her,  has  learned  the  relation  between  you 
and  Armand,  and  declared  the  withdrawal  of  their  consent 
unless  he  gives  you  up.  You  see,  then,  how  much  depends 
on  you.  Let  me  entreat  you  in  the  name  of  your  love  for  her 
brother,  to  save  my  daughter's  peace. 

Camille.  You  are  very  good,  sir,  to  deign  to  speak  such 
words  as  these.  I  understand  you,  and  you  are  right.  I 
will  at  once  quit  Paris,  and  remain  away  from  Armand  for 
sometime.  It  will  be  a  sacrifice,  I  confess ;  but  I  will  make 
it  for  your  sake.  Besides  his  joy  at  my  return  will  make 
amends  for  my  absence.  You  will  allow  him  to  write  me  after 
your  daughter  is  married  ? 

Duval.     Thanks,  my  child ;  but  I  fear  you  do  not  wholly 
understand  me.     I  would  ask  more. 
Camille.     What  could  I  do  more  ? 
Duval.     A  temporary  absence  wlil  not  suffice. 
Camille.    Ah,  you  would  not  have  me  quit  Armand  forever  ? 
Duval.     You  must. 

Camille.  Never  !  To  separate  us  now  would  be  more  than 
cruel — it  would  be  a  crime.  Oh,  sir!  you  have  never  loved! 
You  know  not  what  it  is  to  be  left  without  a  home,  a  friend, 
a  father,  or  a  family.  When  Armand  forgave  my  faults  he 
swore  to  be  all  these.  I  have  grafted  life  and  hope  on  him 
till  they  and  he  are  one.  Oh  do  not  tear  him  from  me  the 
little  while  I  have  to  live !     I  am  not  well,  sir !     I  have  been 


CAMILLE.  39 


ill  for  months.  A  sudden  shock  would  kill  me.  Ask 
any  thing  but  this.  Oh,  do  not  drive  me  to  despair !  See,  I 
am  at  your  feet ! 

Duval.  Rise,  Camille !  I  know  that  I  demand  a  great 
sacrifice  from  your  heart ;  but  one  that,  for  your  own  good, 
you  are  fatally  forced  to  yield.  Listen.  You  have  known 
Armand  three  months,  and  you  love  him.  Are  you  sure 
you  have  not  deceived  yourself,  and  that  even  now  you 
do  not  begin  to  tire  of  your  new  choice,  and  long  for  other 
conquests  ? 

Camille.  Oh,  spare  me,  sir !  Unworthy  as  the  offering  of 
my  love  may  seem,  Armand's  heart  was  the  first  shrine  in 
which  it  ever  sought  a  sanctuary,  and  there  it  shall  remain 
forever ! 

Duval.  You  think  so  now,  perhaps;  but  sooner  or  later 
the  truth  must  come.  Youth  is  prodigal — old  age  exacting. 
Do  you  listen? 

Camille.     Do  I  listen  ?     Oh,  heaven  ! 

Duval.  You  are  willing  to  sacrifice  every  thing  for  my 
son ;  but  should  he  accept  this,  what  sacrifice  could  he  make 
you  in  return  ?  Say  that  Armand  Duval  is  an  honest  man, 
and  would  marry  you, — what  kind  of  union  would  that  be 
which  has  neither  purity  nor  religion  to  recommend  it  to  the 
grace  of  heaven,  the  smile  of  friends,  or  the  esteem  of  the 
world  ?  And  what  will  be  your  fate  to  see  the  man  who  sa- 
crificed position,  honor,  all  for  you,  bowed  down  with  shame  of 
her  who  ought  to  be  his  pride  ? 

Camille.     Oh,  my  punishment  is  come  ! 

Duval.  Avoid  what  yet  may  come.  Say  that  you  love, 
both,  as  none  have  ever  loved.  The  warmest  sun  will  set  at 
eve.  And  when  the  evening  of  your  life  steals  on,  Armand 
will  seek  elsewhere  the  charms  he  can  no  longer  find  in  you ; 
and  with  every  trace  of  age  upon  your  brow,  a  blush  will  rise  on 
his,  accusing  him  of  youth,  and  hopes,  and  honor,  lost  for  you ! 

Camille.     My  dream  is  past ! 

Duval.  Dream  no  more,  Camille;  but  wake  to  duty  to 
yourself  and  to  the  man  you  love. 


40 


CAMXLLE. 


Camille.     Why — why  do  I  live  ? 

Duval.  And  should  you  die,  would  you  have  your  husband 
stand  upon  your  grave,  ashamed  to  breathe  the  name  of  her  who 
lies  there  ?  No,  Camille,  you  are  too  proud  for  that.  I  leave 
to  your  heart,  to  your  reason,  to  your  affection  for  my  son, 
the  sacrifice  I  might  demand.  You  will  be  proud  some  day 
of  having  saved  Armand  from  a  fate  he  would  have  regretted 
all  his  life — which  would  have  brought  on  him  the  idle  jest 
and  scorn  of  every  honorable  man.  Pardon  me,  Camille ;  but 
you  know  the  world  too  well  to  doubt  the  truth  of  what  I  say. 
It  is  a  father  who  implores  you  to  save  his  child.  Come, 
prove  to  me  you  love  my  son.  Give  me  your  hand.  Courage, 
Camille,  courage.  [She  slowly  gives  her  hand.~\  Bless  you, 
bless  you !     You  have  done  your  duty. 

Camille.  Oh,  I  was  fallen — fallen !  Why  did  I  seek  to 
rise  ?  Was  it  not  ever  thus  ?  When  I  have  dared  to  soar 
beyond  the  meshes  of  corruption,  vice  and  shame,  some  iron 
hand  has  dashed  me  back  and  chained  me  to  the  shore  of  in- 
famy !  Oh,  fool,  fool,  fool !  What  have  you  to  do  with 
thoughts  like  these  ?  What  man  would  call  you  wife  ?  What 
child  would  call  you  mother  ?  What  virtuous  home  would 
set  its  door  ajar  to  welcome  in  a  pestilence  ?  But  it  is  well 
— well — it  brings  me  nearer  to  the  close.  You  speak,  sir,  of 
your  daughter.  She  is  young,  lovely,  pure.  I  once  was  all 
of  these.  She  loves  and  she  is  loved — honored  and  esteemed. 
These  I  may  never  be.  Still  I  would  have  the  little  that  was 
good  of  me  dwell  in  her  chaste  memory  when  I  may  be  no 
more.  You  desire,  sir,  that  I  separate  from  your  son  for  his 
good,  his  honor,  and  his  fortune.  What  am  I  to  do  ?  Speak 
— I  am  ready  ! 

Duval.     You  must  tell  him  that  you  do  not  love  him, 

Camille.     He  will  not  believe  me. 

Duval.     You  must  leave  Paris. 

Camille.     He  will  follow  me. 

Duval.     What  will  you  do  ? 

Camille.     I  must  teach  him  to  despise  me. 


CAMILLE. 


41 


Duval.     But,  Canaille,  I  fear  — 

Camille.  Ah,  fear  nothing !  He  will  hate  me  !  I  will 
teach  him.     I  know  how  ;  for  I  have  taught  myself. 

Duval.     Armand  must  not  know  of  this. 

Camille.  Sir,  you  do  not  know  me  yet ;  for  I  swear  by 
the  love  I  bear  your  son,  that  he  shall  never  know  from  my 
lips  what  has  transpired  between  us. 

Duval.  You  are  a  noble  girl !  Is  there  aught  that  I  can 
do  for  you  ? 

Camille.  When  the  heart  that  now  is  breaking  lies  pulse- 
less in  the  grave — when  the  world  records  my  very  virtues  to 
my  blame — when  Armand's  voice  shall  rise  with  curses  on  my 
memory— tell  him — Oh !  tell  him  how  I  loved  him  !  And 
now,  I  pray  you  will  withdraw  into  that  room.  He 
may  return  each,  moment  and  discover  our  purpose. 
[Exit  Duval.  She  goes  to  table  to  write.~\  Oh,  I  can- 
not !  Every  word  I  trace  seems  to  tear  from  my 
heart  a  hope  that  never  can  take  root  again.  What  shall  I 
say?  [Reads  what  she  has  written.']  "  Armand,  in  a  few  hours 
from  this,  the  little  flowers  you  gave  me  this  morning  shall  be 
withered  on  my  breast,  and  in  their  place,  Camelias,  the  badge 
of  that  life  in  which  alone  I  can  find  happiness."  Oh! 
heaven,  forgive  the  injuries  these  words  may  bring  to  him, 
and  the  injustice  they  do  my  heart ! 

[Enter  Armand.] 

Armand.  Ah,  Camille,  here  I  am  !  What  are  you  doing 
there  ? 

Camille.     Armand  !  Nothing  ? 

Armand.     You  were  writing  as  I  entered. 

Camille.     No!  That  is— Yes  ! 

Armand.  What-  does  this  mean?  You  are  pale!  To 
whom  were  you  writing  ?     Camille,  let  me  see  that  letter. 

Camille.     I  cannot. 

Armand.     I  thought  we  had  done  with  mystery  ? 

Camille.     And  with  suspicions. 

Armand.     Pardon  me,  Camille, — I  was  wrong.     I  entered 


42  CAMILLE. 


excited,  and  saw  in  you  my  own  embarrassment.  My  father 
is  arrived. 

Camille.     Have  you  seen  him  ? 

Armani.  No ;  but  he  left  at  my  house  a  letter,  in  which 
he  reproaches  me  very  bitterly.  He  has  learned  that  T  am 
here,  and  doubtless  will  pay  me  a  visit  this  evening.  Some 
idle  tongues  have  been  busy  in  informing  him  of  our  retreat. 
But  let  him  come.  I  wish  him  to  see  you — to  talk  with  you. 
He  will  be  sure  to  love  you.  Or  should  he  remain  stern 
for  awhile,  and  refuse  his  smiles,  what  of  it  ?  He  can  with- 
hold his  patronage  from  me  ;  but  he  cannot  separate  me  from 
your  love.  I  will  work,  toil,  labor  for  you,  and  think  it  a 
privilege  and  a  joy,  if  I  have  but  your  smile  to  repay  me  at 
its  close. 

Camille.  How  he  loves  me  !  But  you  must  be  wise  and 
not  anger  your  father  unnecessarily ;  for  you  know  he  has 
much  cause  to  blame.  He  is  coming,  you  say.  Then  I  will 
retire  awhile  until  h  speak  with  you — then  I  will  return,  and 
be  with  you  again.  I  vail  fall  at  his  feet,  and  implore  him 
not  to  part  us. 

Armand.  Camille,  there  is  something  passing  in  your  mind 
that  you  would  hide  from  me.  It  is  not  my  words  that  agi- 
tate you  so.  You  can  scarcely  stand.  There  is  something 
wrong  here.     It  is  this  letter.     [Snatches  the  letter  from  her."] 

Camille.     Armand — that  letter  must  not  be  read. 

Armand.     What  does  it  contain  ? 

Camille.  A  proof  of  my  love  for  you.  In  the  name  of 
that  love,  return  it  to  me  unread,  and  ask  to  know  no  more. 

Armand.  Take  it,  Camille.  I  know  it  all.  Prudence  told 
me  this  morning,  and  it  was  that  which  took  me  to  Paris.  I 
know  the  sacrifice  you  would  make,  and  while  you  were  consid- 
ering my  happiness,  I  was  not  unmindful  of  yours.  I  have  ar- 
ranged it  all  unknown  to  you.  Ah,  Camille,  how  can  I  ever 
return  such  devotion,  truth  and  love  ? 

Camille.  Well,  now  that  you  are  satisfied,  and  know  all, 
let  us  part  — 

Armand.     Part? 


CAMILLE. 


43 


Camille.  I  mean,  let  me  retire.  Your  father  will  be  here, 
you  remember,  and  I  would  rather  he  would  see  you  alone. 
I  will  be  in  the  garden  with  Niche tte  and  Gustave.  You  can 
call  me  when  you  want  me.  Oh,  how — how  can  I  ever  part 
from  you?  You  will  calm  your  father,  if  he  be  irritated,  and 
win  him  to  forgive  you.  Will  you  not  ?  Then  we  will  he  so 
happy — happy  as  we  have  always  been  since  first  we  met ! 
And  you  are  happy, — are  you  not? — And  have  nothing  to 
reproach  me  for, — have  you  ?  Since  first  I  met  you  I  wel- 
comed in  my  heart  of  hearts  your  love,  believing  it  a  sign 
from  heaven  that  the  past  had  been  forgiven.  If  I  have  ever 
caused  your  heart  a  pang,  you  will  forgive  me, — will  you  not  ? 
And  when  you  recall,  one  day,  the  little  proofs  of  love  I  have 
bestowed  on  you,  you  will  not  despise  or  curse  my  memory  ! 
Oh,  do  not — do  not  curse  me,  when  you  learn  how  I  have 
loved  you ! 

Armand.     Camille,  what  does  this  mean  ? 

Camille.     Love  for  you  ! 

Armand.     But  why  these  tears  ? 

Camille.  Oh,  let  them  fall !  I  had  forgotten.  Do  not 
heed  them.  I  am  such  a  silly  girl  !  You  know  I  often  love 
to  weep.  See,  I  am  calm  now.  They  are  all  gone.  Come, 
chase  them  away.  [He  kisses  her  brow.~]  See,  now,  they  are 
all  gone.  No  more  tears  but  smiles.  You,  too,  are  smiling. 
Ah!  I  will  live  on  that  smile  until  we  meet  again?  See,  I 
too,  can  smile !  You  can  read  until  your  father  comes,  and 
think  of  me  ;  for  I  shall  never  cease  to  think  of  you.  Adieu, 
[Aside."]  forever!  \ExiL~] 

Armand.  How  she  loves  me.  She  fears  my  father  may 
separate  us.  It  is  too  late.  The  world  would  be  a  blank 
without  her.  [Calls.]  Nanine !  [Enter  Nanine.]  A  gen- 
tleman, my  father,  will  arrive  here  presently.  If  he  ask  to 
see  Madam,  say  that  I  am  here  awaiting  him. 
Nanine.     I  will,  sir. 

Armand.     Give  me  a  light.     [She  gives  a  light  and  exits.'] 
Let  me  see  what  we  have  here.     [Takes  letters  f rem  his  pock- 


44  CAMILLE. 


et.~\  I  met  Olimpe  to-day.  Always  the  same — busy  with 
balls  and  fetes  and  revelries  of  all  kinds.  Poor  fool !  She 
has  but  one  thought  herself.  Her  heart  is  empty,  and  she 
tries  to  fill  the  void  with  noisy  bustle  and  excitement.  Here 
is  an  invitation  to  her  ball  next  week — as  if  Camille  could  ever 
again  lend  her  presence  to  such  scenes.  Seven  o'clock !  My 
father  should  be  here.  What  book  is  this  ?  I  cannot  read. 
It  seems  as  if  the  time  stood  still  when  that  girl  is  from  my 
side.  I  will  call  her  in .  [Rings  bell.  Nanine  enters.']  That 
gentleman  will  not  be  here  to-night.  Tell  Madam  to  come  in  ! 
It  grows  too  cold  to  remain  in  the  night  air. 

Nanine.     Madam  is  not  here,  sir. 

Armand.     How  ?  Where  is  she,  then  ? 

Nanine.  I  saw  her  go  down  the  road.  She  told  me  to  say 
to  you,  sir,  that  she  would  return  presently. 

Armand.  Very  well !  [Exit  Nanine.']  Where  can  she 
be  gone  ?  I  think  I  see  her  form  in  the  garden.  [Calls.] 
Camille  !  Camille!  No,  there  is  no  one  there.  [Calls  again.] 
Nanine  !  Nanine  !  [Rings  bell  impatiently.]  Nanine,  I  say ! 
No  answer!  What  can  this  mean?  This  silence  makes  me 
shudder  !  There  is  a  desolation  in  that  quiet  that  forebodes  no 
good.  Why  did  I  suffer  Camille  to  leave  me  ?  There  was 
something  she  would  hide  from  me.  She  appeared  confused 
when  I  entered, — and  then  she  wept !     I  will  go  — 

[As  he  hastens  towards  the  door  a  Messenger  enters^] 

Messenger.  Your  pardon,  sir.  You  are  Monsieur  Ar- 
mand Duval  ? 

Armand.     I  am. 

Messenger.     Here  is  a  letter  for  you,  sir  ? 

Armand.     Who  gave  it  to  you? 

Messenger.  A  lady.  The  garden  gate  was  open.  There 
was  no  one  about.  I  saw  a  light  here,  and  I  thought  I  might 
enter. 

Armand.  You  were  right.  Leave  me.  [Exit  Messenger  J\ 
It  is  her  hand  writing.  Why  have  I  not  the  power  to  open  it  ? 
I  tremble  like  a  child.     [Duval  enters  unperceived   and  gazes 


CAMILLE.  45 


intently  upon  Armand,  who  opens  letter  and  reads  aloud.'] 
"An  hour  after  you  will  have  received  this  letter,  Armand,  I 
shall  be  with  the  Count  de  Yarville."  [He  staggers  back,  sees 
his  father,  and  falls  on  his  breast.]  Father !  my  heart  is 
shattered ! ! 


[end  of  act.] 


ACT   FOURTH. 

Scene. — A  room  in  the  house  of  Olimpe. 
Parties  dancing  as  curtain  rises.     Others  at  tables  playing 

cards. 

Prudence,  Olimpe,  Gaston  and  Gustave  Discovered. 
At  the  close  of  the  dance  Armand  enters. 

Prudence.     Why,  here  is  Armand  !     We  were  just  speak- 
ing of  you  a  moment  since. 

Armand.     And  what  were  you  saying  ? 

Prudence.      I  was  saying  that  you  were  at  Tours,  and 
that  you  would  not  be  here  to-night. 

Armand.    Well,  you  see  you  were  mistaken,  for  I  am  here. 

Prudence.     When  did  you  arrive  ? 

Armand.     An  hour  ago. 

Prudence.     Have  you  seen  Camille  ? 

Armand.     I  have  not. 

Prudence.     She  will  be  here  to-night. 

Armand.     Ah,  indeed  !   Then  perhaps  I  may  see  her. 

Prudence.   Perhaps  you  may  see  her  !    How  strangely  you 
talk? 

Armand.     How  would  you  have  me  talk  ? 


46  CAMILLE. 


Prudence.     You  are  cured,  then  ? 

Armand.     Oh,  perfectly  !     Else  why  should  I  be  here  ? 

Prudence.     So  you  have  ceased  to  think  of  her  ? 

Armand.  No !  I  cannot  say  that ;  for  it  would  be  untrue. 
But  I  confess  the  souvenir  is  not  a  very  nattering  one  to 
her,  nor  pleasant  one  to  me. 

Prudence.  Oh  !  I  really  think  she  loved  you  then,  and 
even  loves  you  still — that  is  a  little ;  but  it  was  quite  time 
she  did  leave- you.  Even  the  old  Duke  refused  to  contribute 
a  sous  unless  the  relation  between  you  were  sundered.  She 
was  forsaking  her  friends — wasting  her  means — and  every- 
thing she  possessed  was  being  sold  to  pay  her  debts. 

Armand.     It  is  different  now  ? 

Prudence.     Yes,  very  different ! 

Armand.    All  her  debts  are  paid  ? 

Prudence.     Every  one  ! 

Armand.     By  the  Count  de  Varville  ? 

Prudence.     Yes ! 

Armand.     So  much  the  better  ! 

Prudence.  And  so  I  tell  her.  That  is  just  what  I  think 
— and  I  am  glad  you  have  come  to  your  senses,  and  think  so 
too.  Now  everything  goes  well.  Horses,  carriage,  jewels, 
are  all  returned ;  and  the  luxury  in  which  she  lives  would 
make  you  wonder  how  she  could  stay  so  long  in  that  cage  in 
which  she  lived  with  you  in  the  country. 

Armand.     She  is  in  Paris,  then  ? 

Prudence.  Yes !  She  will  be  here  soon.  I  have  never 
seen  her  as  she  is  now.  She  is  scarcely  an  hour  at  home — 
operas,  balls,  suppers — and  as  for  sleep,  that  scarcely  visits 
her  any  more.  After  she  left  you,  she  was  three  days  con- 
fined to  bed ;  and  the  moment  she  got  well  enough  to  be  out 
ao-ain,  her  revelry  began ;  and  so  she  has  kept  it  up  at  the 
expense  of  her  health,  and  I  may  say,  her  life.  For  if  she 
continues  thus,  it  cannot  last  long.  Even  now  she  looks 
more  like  a  statue  than  a  living  thing. 

Armand.     [Seeing  Gustave.~]     Madam  Duverney,  here  is 


CAMILLE. 


47 


a  friend  to  whom  I  would  speak.  Will  you  have  the  good- 
ness to  excuse  me  ? 

Prudence.  Oh,  certainly  ;  for  I  must  sit  down,  or  I  shall 
faint  with  hunger.     I  wish  they  would  hurry  up   the  supper. 

[Goes  up.] 

Armancl.  [Taking  Gustave7  s  hand.']  So  you  received  my 
letter? 

Gustave.     I  did — and  am  here. 

Armand.    You  thought  Camille  loved  me — did  you  not  ? 

Gustave.     I  did — and  do  still  think  so. 

Armand.    Read.     [Gives  aletter.] 

Gustave.    Did  Camille  write  that  ? 

Armand.     She  did. 

Gustave.     When  ? 

Armand.     One  month  ago. 

Gustave.     And  what  was  your  reply  ? 

Armand.  What  could  it  be?  The  blow  was  so  sudden 
that  I  thought  I  should  go  mad.  She  will  be  here  to-night 
with  Count  de  Varville.     I  have  come  here  to  meet  him. 

Gustave.  Armand,  for  heaven's  sake,  be  calm !  Reflect 
where  you  are.  If,  indeed,  Camille  be  false,  she  is  unworthy 
of  your  love — and  ask  yourself  if  injury  from  such  as  are 
assembled  here  to-night  be  worthy  the  resentment  of  a  gen- 
tleman. 

Armand.  Gustave,  you  are  an  honest  man.  I  may  re- 
quire to-night  the  service  of  a  friend.  May  I  count  on 
yours  ? 

Gustave.  You  may,  sir ;  although  I  wish  it  were  to  serve 
you  in  a  worthier  cause. 

Armand.  For  your  sake.  To  me  it  is  more  than  worthy 
— it  is  sacred.  [Points  to  letter.]  These  words  were  penned 
by  her  ;  but  never  emanated  from  her  heart.  They  are  the 
echo  of  the  sweet  words  that  scorpion  Count  de  Varville 
has  been  hissing  in  her  ear.  It  is  with  Mm  that  I  would 
speak.  By  my  hopes  in  her  which  he  has  blasted — by  the 
infamy  he  has  labeled  on  her  name — I  have  sworn  to  be 
avenged ! 


48  CAMILLE. 


Prompter.  [Without']  Mademoiselle  Camille  Gauthier 
and  Count  de  Varville. 

Armand.     She  is  here.  » 

Enter  Camille  and  Varville. 

Olimpe.     How  late  you  are. 

Varville.     We  have  only  now  returned  from  the  opera. 

Prudence.  [To  Camille.']  How  lovely  you  look,  my  child 
■ — are  you  well? 

Camille.     Oh,  very  well ! 

Prudence.     Armand  is  here. 

Camille.  Armand!  [Turns  and  sees  him.  They  how 
coldly.  He  goes  to  card  table.']  Oh  !  I  was  wrong  to  come 
to  this  ball  to-night ! 

Prudence.  Well,  you  would  have  to  meet  some  day  ;  and 
it  may  as  well  be  soon  as  late. 

Camille.     Oh  !  how  pale  he  is  ! 

Varville.     Camille,  Monsieur  Duval  is  here. 

Camille.     I  know  it. 

Varville.  Are  you  sure  you  did  not  know  he  would  be  here 
before  you  came  ? 

Camille.     Certain ! 

Varville.     Then  promise  me  you  will  not  speak  to  him. 

Camille.     I  cannot  promise  that.     [Goes  to  sofa.'] 

Gustave.     Good  evening,  Camille  ! 

Camille.  Gustave  !  Oh,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  !  And 
Mchette  —  how  is  she  ? 

Gustave.     Very  well ! 

Camille.     But  why  are  you  here  ?     This  is  not  your  custom. 

Gustave.  Nor  was  it  yours  of  late,  Camille.  What  is  the 
matter  ? 

Camille.     Oh,  Gustave,  I  am  so  unhappy !     Leave  me. 

Gustave.     Why  have  you  come  here  ? 

Camille.  He  would  have  it  so.  But  it  is  well ;  for  each 
night  passed  thus  shortens  the  number  of  my  days. 

Gustave.     Camille,  leave  this  place. 

Camille.     Wherefore  ? 


■CAMILLE,  49 


■Gustave.     Because  Armand- 


CamiUe.     I  know  he  despises  me. 

Gustave.  No  !  He  loves  you  !  He  Is  not  well.  You  see 
now  pale  he  is.  He  is  much  excited.  I  know  not  what  may 
yet  transpire  between  him  and  Count  de  Varville. 

Camille.  A  duel !  You  are  right,  G-ustave.  I  will  leave 
instantly. 

Varville.     Where  are  you  going,  Camille  ? 

Camille.     Count,  I  am  not  well.     I  pray  you  lead  me  hence. 

Varville.  I  understand,  Camille.  You  would  retire  be- 
cause Monsieur  Duval  is  here.  While  I  appreciate  your  con- 
sideration, I  cannot  consent  to  be  driven  from  the  place  .  in 
which  he  chooses  to  intrude  his  presence.  Know  that  I  nei- 
ther respect  nor  fear  him.  For  that  reason,  you  are  here,  and 
here  you  shall  remain !     [She  sinks  bach  on  the  sofa.'] 

Olimpe.     What  was  the  opera  to-night  ? 

Varville,     La  Favorite  I 

Armand.     The  story  of  a  woman  who  deceived  her  lover. 

Gaston.     A  very  common  case. 

Armand.  Oh !  but  she  loved  him  ;  or  she  said  so — much 
the  same  thing ! 

Gaston.  Quite  the  same.  You  can  never  tell  when  they 
do,  or  when  they  don't.  Their  words  are  all  alike.  Yet  we, 
poor  devils,  trust  them  to  the  last ;  for,  in  spite  of  all  experi- 
ence, man  is  but  man. 

Armand.     And  woman  is  but  woman  ! 

Olimpe,  Why,  my  dear  Armand,  what  a  frightful  game 
you  are  playing  ? 

Armand.  Yes  !  I  would  test  the  proverb  : — "Happy  at 
cards,  unhappy  in  love  !" 

Gaston.  Then  I  must  be  fearfully  lucky  at  cards  ;  for  a 
more  unlucky  devil  at  the  game  of  hearts 

Armand.      [Interrupting     him.]      Hearts  ?      Diamonds ! 
Play  diamonds,  if  you  will  win  women  !     My  friends,  I  hope 
to  make  a  fortune  to-night.     And  when  I  shall  have  made  it, 
I  will  go  and  live  in  the  country. 
4 


50  CAMILLE-. 


Olimpe.     Alone  ? 

Armand.  Oh,  no  !  With  one  who  accompanied  me  there 
before,  and  who  left  me  because  I  was  poor  I  But  I  have 
found  the  way  to  bring  her  back  again.  It  is  this  !  [Throws 
gold  coin  up  in  the  air  J]  Gold  I  Gold  !  At  its  magic  sound 
the  truant  bird  will  perch  upon  my  hand  1 

Gustave.  I  pray  you,  sir,  forbear  !  See,  your  words  have 
made  her  ill. 

Armand.  Then  why  is  her  friend  silent  ?  That  was  his 
cue!  But  he  shall  speak  !  [Turns  to  company.]  It  is  a  very 
good  story,  by  the  way.  I  must  relate  it.  It  is  quite  ro- 
mantic ;  for  there  is  a  nobleman  in  it — a  great  Count — very 
rich  in  pocket ;  but  history  does  not  record  the  extent  of  his 
honor! 

Varville.     [Advancing.']     Sir  I 

Camille.  Varville,  if  you  provoke  Monsieur  Duval,  never 
speak  to  me  again.     You  know  me  ! 

Armand.     [To  Varville.']     Did  you  speak  to  me,  sir? 

Varville.  Yes,  sir !  I  was  about  to  say  that  the  happy 
vein  which  your  fortune  has  struck  to-night  tempts  me  to  ven- 
ture mine !  Besides,  having  learned  from  you  how  I  may 
catch  the  bird,  perhaps  you  will  instruct  me  how  to  keep  it 
I,  too,  would  test  the  proverb.     I  propose  to  take  a  lesson. 

Armand.     Which  I  will  endeavor  to  teach  you. 

Varville.     I  hold  a  hundred  louis,  sir. 

Armand.     Be  it  so.     What  side,  sir  ? 

Varville.     The  one  you  reject. 

Armand.     A  hundred  louis  to  the  left ! 

Varville.     A  hundred  louis  to  the  right ! 

Armand.     [To  Gaston.]     Hold  the  cards. 

Gaston.  To  the  right,  four — to  the  left,  nine.  Armand 
has  gained. 

Varville.     Two  hundred  louis,  then  I 

Armand.  As  you  please.  Two  hundred  louis  !  But  have 
a  care  *,  if  the  proverb  says  :  "  Happy  at  play,  unhappy  in 
love,  "  it  also  says  :     "  Unhappy  in  love,  happy  at  play  ! " 


CAMILLE.  51 


Varville.     I  have  no  fear,  sir  ! 

Gaston.     Again : — six — eight — Armand  has  gained. 

Olimpe.  Good  !  So,  Count,  you  must  pay  for  the  cham- 
pagne.    Let  us  to  supper.     It  is  time  we  were  at  table. 

Armand.     Shall  we  continue  the  game  ? 

Varville.     No — not  for  the  present. 

Armand.  I  owe  you  a  revenge  ;  and  I  promise  to  pay  it 
at  whatever  game  it  may  please  you  to  adopt.  Till  then,  I 
will  remain  your  debtor. 

Varville.  It  shall  no  longer  burthen  you.  I  accept  your 
will  to  be  released  from  the  obligation,  and  shall  await  your 
payment  at  the  earliest  moment. 

Olimpe.  [Taking  Armand's  arm.]  You  have  been  ill- 
humored  all  the  night. 

Armand.     It  is  over  now ;  for  I  have  won  the  game. 
[Exeunt  Armand,  Olimpe,  Gustave,  Gaston,   and  company.] 

Varville.     [To  Camille.]     Come  with  me. 

Camille.  I  will  join  you  presently.  I  would  speak  with 
Prudence. 

Varville.  If  in  ten  minutes  you  are  not  with  us  there, 
[Pointing  to  supper  room.]  I  will  return.     You  understand ! 

Camille.  Leave  me.  [Exit  Varville.  To  Prudence.] 
Go  find  Armand,  and  entreat  him  to  come  to  me.  I  must 
speak  to  him. 

Prudence.     If  he  refuse 


Camille.  He  will  not.  He  will  seize  the  opportunity  to 
tell  me  how  he  hates  me.  [Exit  Prudence.]  What's  to  be 
done  ?  I  must  continue  to  deceive  him.  I  made  a  sacred 
promise  to  his  father.  It  must  not  be  broken.  Oh,  heaven ! 
give  me  strength  to  keep  it.  But  this  duel !  How  to  pre- 
vent it !  Peril  honor,  life,  for  me !  Oh !  No,  no,  no  ! 
Rather  let  him  hate — despise  me  !  Oh  !  he  is  here  ! 
[Enter  Armand.] 

Armand.     Madam,  did  you  send  for  me? 

Camille.     I  did,  Armand  !     I  would  speak  with  you. 

Armand.     Speak  !     I  listen. 


52 


CAMILLE. 


Camille.  I  have  a  few  words  to  say  to  you — not  of  the 
past 

Armand.  Oh,  no  !  Let  that  be  buried  in  the  shame  that 
shrouds  it. 

Camille.  Oh  !  do  not  crush  me  with  reproach.  See  how  I 
am  bowed  before  you,  pale  trembling,  supplicating.  Listen 
to  me  without  hate,  and  hear  me  without  anger.  Say  that 
you  will  forget  the  past,  and — give  me  your  hand. 

Armand.  [Rejecting  her  hand.]  Pardon  me,  Madam.  If 
your  business  with  me  is  at  an  end,  I  will  retire. 

Camille.  Stay — I  will  not  detain  you  long.  Armand,  you 
must  leave  Paris ! 

Armand.     Leave  Paris  !     And  why,  Madam  ? 

Camille.  Because  the  Count  de  Yarville  seeks  to  quarrel 
with  you,  and  I  wish  you  to  avoid  him.  I  alone  am  to  blame, 
and  I  alone  should  suffer. 

Armand.  And  it  is  thus  you  counsel  me  to  play  the  cow- 
ard's part,  and  fly — fly  from  Count  de  Varville  !  What  other 
counsel  could  come  from  such  a  source  ? 

Camille.  Armand,  by  the  memory  of  the  woman  whom  you 
once  loved — in  the  name  of  the  pangs  it  cost  her  to  destroy 
your  faith — and  in  the  name  of  her  who  smiled  from  heaven 
upon  the  act  that  saved  her  son  from  shame — even  in  her 
name — your  mother's  name — Armand  Duval,  I  charge  you 
leave  me  !  Fly — fly — anywhere  from  here — from  me — or 
you  will  make  me  human  ! 

Armand.  I  understand,  Madam.  You  tremble  for  your 
.lover — your  wealthy  Count — who  holds  your  fortune  in  his 
hands.  You  shudder  at  the  thought  of  the  event  which  would 
rob  you  of  his  gold ;  or,  perhaps,  his  title,  which,  no  doubt, 
ere  long  you  hope  to  wear. 

Camille.     I  tremble  for  your  life  ! 

Armand.  You  tremble  for  my  life  !  Oh,  you  jest !  What 
is  my  life  or  death  to  you  ?  Had  you  such  a  fear  when  you 
wrote  that  letter?  [Takes  out  letter  and  reads.']  "  Armand, 
forget  me.     The  Count  has  offered  me  his  protection.     I  ac- 


CAMILLE. 


53 


cept  it;  for  I  know  he  loves  me."  Love  you  !  Oh,  had  he 
loved  you,  you  would  not  have  been  here  to-night.  These 
were  your  words.  That  they  did  not  kill  me  was  no  fault  of 
yours — and  that  I  am  not  dead,  is  because  I  cannot  die  until 
I  am  avenged ;  because  I  will  not  die  until  I  see  the  words 
you  have  graven  on  my  brain  imprinted  in  the  blood  of  him 
who  wronged  me  !  And  should  your  life-strings  crack  to  part 
with  him,  he  shall  not  live ;  for  I  have  sworn  it ! 

Camille.  Armand,  you  wrong  him !  De  Varville  is  inno- 
cent of  all  that  has  occurred ! 

Armand.  He  loves  you,  madam  !  That  is  his  crime — the 
sin  that  he  must  answer  for ! 

Camille.  Oh,  could  you  but  know  his  thoughts,  they 
would  tell  you  that  I  hate  him  ! 

Armand.  Why.  are  you  his  ?  Why  here — the  plaything 
of  his  vanity,  the  trophy  of  his  gold  ? 

Camille.  Oh,  heaven  !  Armand  !  No — no  !  this  must 
not  be.  You  may  retire !  I  have  no  more  to  say.  Do  not 
ask  me,  for  I  cannot  tell ! 

Armand.  Then  I  will  tell  you  !  Because  you  are  heart- 
less, truthless,  and  make  a  sale  of  that  which  you  call  love  to 
him  who  bids  the  highest !  Because  when  you  found  a  man 
who  truly  loved  you,  who  devoted  every  thought  and  act  to 
bless  and  guard  you,  you  fled  from  him  at  the  very  moment 
you  were  mocking  him  with  a  sacrifice  you  had  not  the 
courage  to  make.  Horses,  house  and  jewels  must  be  parted 
with,  and  all  for  love  !  Oh,  no  !  that  could  not  be  !  They 
must  remain  unsold,  and  so  they  did !  They  were  returned, 
and  with  them,  what  ?  The  bitter  pangs  of  anguish  and  re- 
morse which  fill  your  breast,  even  while  it  heaves  beneath  a 
weight  of  gems  ! — the  fixed  despair  which  sits  upon  that  brow 
on  which  those  diamonds  look  down  in  mockery  !  And  this 
is  what  the  man  you  love  has  done  for  you !  These  are  his 
triumphs — the  wages  of  your  shame ! 

Camille.  Armand,  you  have  pierced  my  heart—you  have 
bowed  me  in  the  dust !     Is  it  fit  that  you  should  die  for  such 


54 


CAMILLE. 


a  wretch  as  you  have  drawn  ?  Is  it  fit  that  you  should  taint 
your  name  in  such  a  cause  as  hers  ?  Remember  those  who 
love  you,  Armand  ! — your  sister,  father,  friends,  Camille ! 
For  her  sake  do  not  peril  life  and  honor  ?  Do  not  meet  the 
Count  again !  Quit  Paris !  Forget  your  wrongs  for  my 
sake  !     See,  at  your  feet  I  ask  it  in  my  name  ! 

Armand.     On  condition  that  you  fly  from  Paris  with  me  ! 

Camille.     Oh,  you  are  mad  ! 

Armand.  I  am  indeed  !  I  stand  upon  the  brink  of  an 
abyss,  whence  I  must  soar  or  fall  ?  You  can  save  me.  A 
moment  since  I  thought  I  hated  you.  I  tried  to  smother  in 
my  breast  the  truth,  that  it  was  love — love  for  you!  All 
shall  be  forgotten — forgiven  !  We  will  fly  from  Paris  and 
the  past !  We  will  go  to  the  end  of  the  earth — away  from 
man — where  not  an  eye  shall  feast  a  glance  upon  your  form, 
nor  sound  disturb  your  ear  less  gentle  than  the  echoes  which 
repeat  our  tales  of  love  ! 

Camille.     This  cannot  be  ! 

Armand.     Again ! 

Camille.  I  would  give  a  whole  eternity  of  life  to  purchase 
one  short  hour  of  bliss  like  that  you've  pictured  now  ?  But 
it  must  not  be  !  There  is  a  gulf  between  us  which  I  dare  not 
cross  !  I  have  sworn  to  forget  you — to  avoid  you — to  tear 
you  from  my  thoughts,  though  it  should  uproot  my  reason ! 

Armand.     You  have  sworn  to  whom  ? 

Camille.     To  one  who  had  the  right  to  ask  me  ? 

Armand.  To  the  Count  de  Varville,  who  loves  you !  Now 
say  that  you  love  him,  and  I  will  part  with  you  forever  ! 

Camille.     [Faltering.]     Yes,  I  love  the  Count  de  Varville  ! 

Armand.  [Rushes  to  supper-room  door,  and  violently 
dashes  it  open.]     Enter  all ! 

[All  the  characters  in  the  act  rush  in.~\ 

Camille.     What  would  you  do  ? 

Armand.  You  will  see!  [To  guests.']  You  see  that 
woman  ? 

Olimpe.     Camille  ? 


€AM1LLE. 


55 


Armand.  Yes!  Camille  Gauthier !  Do  you  know  what 
she  has  done  ? 

All     No! 

Armand.  But  you  shall !  She  onee  sold  her  horses,  car- 
riage, diamonds — all  to  live  with  me,  so  much  she  loved  me ! 
This  was  generous— was  it  not  ?  But  what  did  I  do  ?  You 
shall  hear  !  I  accepted  this  sacrifice  at  her  hands  without 
repaying  her  I  But  it  is  not  too  late  !  I  have  repented — and 
now  that  I  am  rich,  I  am  come  to  pay  it  back  !  You  all  bear 
witness  that  I  have  paid  that  woman,  and  that  I  owe  her 
nothing  ! 

[He  throws  a  shower  of  notes  and  gold  upon  Camille,  who 
has  thrown  herself  at  his  feet  Be  Varville  advances  suddenly 
>and  strikes  him.'] 

Varville.     'Tis  false  !     You  owe  me  revenge ! 

[end  of  act.] 


A€T     FIFTH. 

Scene  : — A  poorly  furnished  chamber. 
Camille  discovered  asleep  on  a  couch,  and  Gaston  on  a  chair. 

Gaston  [  Waking. ~]  I  verily  believe  I  have  had  a  nap.  I 
wonder  if  she  wanted  anything.  No,  she  sleeps.  What  time 
is  it?  [Looks  at  clockJ]  Eight  o'clock.  I  wish  this  room 
would  stand  still  a  moment.  There's  something  the  matter 
with  my  head.  Ugh  !  ugh!  ugh!  It  is  very  cold.  Stay,  she 
must  be  cold  too.  I  thought  there  was  a  fire  in  this  room 
when  Hay  down.     Oh!  here  it  is.     [Fixes  fire. ~\ 

Camille.     Nanine,  are  you  there  ? 

Gaston.     Yes  !  here  I  am. 

Camille.     Who  is  that  ? 

Gaston.     Gaston.     It  is  only  Gaston. 

Camille.     You  frighten  me.     How  came  you  here  ? 

Gaston.  [Giving  a  cup  oftea.~]  Drink,  first,  and  then  you 
shall  know  all  about  it.     Is  it  sweet  enough  ? 


56 


CAMTLLE. 


Camille.     Yes,  Gaston,  just  as  I  like  it. 

Gaston.  I  thought  so.  I  begin  to  think  that  nature  in- 
tended me  for  a  nurse. 

Camille.     What  have  you  done  with  Nanine  ? 

Gaston.  Sent  her  to  bed.  When  I  came  here  two  hours 
ago,  I  found  a  man  at  the  door  giving  her  a  little  of  his  mind 
upon  the  matter  of  some  accounts  that  were  standing  against 
her  on  his  bread  bill.  I  did  not  exactly  like  the  manner  in 
which  he  expressed  himself,  and  so  I  told  him.  Whereupon  he 
chose  to  direct  his  conversation  to  me.  Handing  him  the 
amount  of  his  claim.  I  was  just  in  the  act  of  handing  him  out 
at  the  window,  when  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  the 
noise  might  wake  you ;  so  I  ended  the  affair  by  giving  him  a 
gentle  impetus,  which  sent  him  down  stairs  upon  an  improved 
plan  of  speed. 

Camille.     But  Nanine — ■ 

Gaston.  Well,  the  poor  girl  looked  worn-out  with  fatigue. 
She  could  scarcely  keep  her  eyes  open.  I  told  her  to  go  to 
bed.  I  entered  here.  You  were  fast  asleep.  I  placed  my- 
self on  that  sofa  near  the  fire,  listened  to  the  ticking  of  the 
clock  until  I  fancied  I  was  back  waltzing  in  the  ball-room  I  had 
just  left ;  and  when  I  awoke  just  now,  such  a  turning  round  as 
this  little  room  kept  up !  Then  I  must  trim  the  fire,  and 
make  a  noise,  and  wake  you.  That  was  too  bad.  But  I  always 
was  an  awkward  fellow. 

Camille.  Oh,  you  are  so  good  to  come  and  stay  with  me. 
But  you  must  be  fatigued. 

Gaston.  Fatigued  !  Ha  !  ha!  Well,  I  think  when  I  give 
all  my  nights  to  balls  and  masques,  it  would  be  hard  if  I  could 
not  spare  an  hour  of  the  morning  to  watch  a  poor  sick  girl ; 
eh !  Camille  ?  But  how  are  you  to-day  ?  You  have  not  told 
me  yet. 

Camille.  I  feel  much  better.  When  Nanine  awakes  I 
think  I  shall  get  up. 

Gaston.  Good  !  [Enter  Nanine.']  And  here  she  is.  So  I 
will  just  get  my  coat  that  I  left  in  the  entry,  and  be  with  you, 
in  a  moment.     There,  Nanine,  get  her  up. 


CAMILLE.  57 


[Exit  Gaston.     Nanine  helps  Camille.] 

Camille.     Poor  girl !     You  must  be  very  tired. 

Nanine.  No,  Madam ;  I  could  never  tire  in  jour  service, 
[Camille  kisses  her.']     Oh  thank  you,  Madam. 

Camille.     Nanine,  you  have  been  a  faithful  friend. 

Nanine.  Oh,  Madam,  I  never  can  forget  that  I  was  once 
an  orphan,  without  a  friend  or  a  home,  and  that  I  found  both 
in  your  care. 

Gaston.  [Entering.]  Here  we  are.  Why  I  declare,  my 
little  patient  looks  well  to-day — all  the  result  of  my  nursing. 
But  here,  you  want  a  pillow,  don't  you  ?  [Places  a' pillow  for 
her  head.]     Now  we  are  all  right.  [Exit  Nanine. 

Camille.     How  can  I  ever  repay  such  kindness  ? 

Gaston.  By  forgetting  that  you  owe  it.  Let  us  talk  of 
something  else.  It.  is  a  beautiful  day.  You  have  slept  well 
all  night.  In  an  hour  or  two  the  sun  will  be  high.  I  will 
come  for  you  in  a  carriage,  wrap  you  up  in  shawls — we  will 
take  a  long  drive— I  shall  get  you  a  little  bird — you  shall 
eat  it  on  your  return — then  you  shall  scold  me  for  making 
you  so  tired — you  will  lay  your  head  down  softly  on  your 
pillow  and  sleep  till  morning.     Will  that  do  ? 

Camille.     Do  you  think  I  will  be  strong  enough? 

Gaston.  To  be  sure  you  will.  Besides  am  I  not  your 
nurse  ?  You  must  obey  your  nurse,  you  kno^y.  And  now  I 
will  go  and  see  my  mother.  It  has  been  fifteen  days  since  she 
laid  eyes  on  me.  She  will  give  me  a  reception !  Ah,  I  am 
a  bad  boy,  Camille,  and  dont  deserve  to  have  so  good  a 
mother. 

Camille.     If  she  but  knew  your  heart. 

Gaston.  Yes  !  I  think  myself  that  little  machine  called 
heart,  would  not  work  so  badly  if  it  were  properly  managed. 
Good-bye  !  Oh,  Camille,  do  you  want  your  key  ?  That  is, 
would  you  require  it  ?  The  key  of  that  little  drawer,  I 
mean. 

Camille.     No,  there  is  nothing  in  it. 

Gaston.     That  was  just  what  I  thought ;  and  so   I  locked 


58 


CAMILLE. 


it,  lest  it  might  get  out.  You  will  find  the  key  in  that  little 
box  on  top  there,  should  you  want  it  before  I  return.  Good- 
bye ! 

Camille.  Stay  !  What  have  you  done  ?  You  have  filled 
my  little  purse.     Is  it  not  so  ? 

G-aston.  Never  mind  ;  we  will  talk  of  that  again.  Ca- 
mille, why  was  it  empty  ?  Why  did  I  find  you  here  this 
morning  in  suffering  and  in  want  ? 

Camille.     What  could  I  do  ? 

Gaston.     You  could  have  sent  to  me. 

Camille.  You,  on  whom  I  never  bestowed  the  favor  of  a 
smile,  scarcely  a  kind  word. 

Gaston.  And  what  of  that  ?  I  am  sure  I  deserved  worse 
than  that ;  for  I  know  I  was  a  great  fool.  Olimpe  could  tell 
you  that.  She  knows  it.  But  never  mind.  You  must  let 
me  be  your  brother,  and  I  will  come  here  every  day  and 
nurse  you  until  you  get  well.  Do  you  know,  Camille,  I  have 
grown  tired  of  the  first  edition  of  my  life.  I  think  I  will 
issue  a  second,  revised  and  corrected,  with  notes  by  the  au- 
thor, and  see  how  it  will  look  in  new  type.  What  do  you 
think  of  it  ? 

Camille.  I  think  well  of  it,  Gaston ;  and  so  will  your  mo- 
ther. Ask  her  counsel — tell  her  your  wish — and  she  will 
help  you  to  it.  Make  her  love  the  altar  of  your  truth,  and 
it  will  rise  before  you  as  a  pillar  of  fire  to  guide  you  in  ad- 
versity. 

Gaston.  I  will  go  to  her  now,  and  tell  her  what  you  say. 
You  will  be  ready  in  an  hour. 

Camille.     Yes,  good-bye.     Remember  all  that  I  have  said. 

Gastoyi.      It   shall   lie   upon   my  heart   like    a  prayer. 

{Exit. 

Camille.  I  remember  the  time  I  used  to  laugh  at  him. 
Where  is  the  crowd  who  smiled  upon  me  then?  And  he  is 
here. 

[Enter  JYanine.'] 

Nanine.     Madam,  here  are  some  presents,  I  am  sure. 


CAMILLE. 


59 


Camille.  Presents  ?  Oh,  I  remember,  it  is  new-years 
day.  The  last  brought  many  changes.  This  day  twelve- 
month !     Ah,  Nanine,  those  days  are  gone. 

Nanine.  Would  you  not  like  to  see  what  these  contain 
madam  ? 

Camille.  Yes,  let  me  see.  A  ring,  with  Gaston's  card. 
Bless  him !  Oh,  he  is  so  good  to  think  of  me.  A  bracelet 
from  the  dear  old  Duke.  He  does  not  know  that  I  am  ill. 
Ah,  if  he  knew  how  changed  I  am,  he  would  forgive  me. 
Bonbons  from  Nichette  and  Gustave.  The  world  has  a  better 
memory  than  I  gave  it  credit  for.  What  is  this  ?  A  letter 
from  Nichette.  [Reads.']  "  My  dear  Camille  : — I  have  called 
twenty  times,  but  I  have  never  been  permitted  to  see  you. 
I  hope  you  are  very  well.  I  wish  you  a  happy  new-year ; 
for  it  is  the  happiest  of  my  life.  It  is  my  wedding-day.  Gus- 
tave and  I  desire  you  will  be  present  at  the  ceremony.  It  is 
all  we  want  to  make  our  joy  complete.  Do  pray  come.  The 
ceremony  will  take  place  at  ten  o'clock,  at  the  church  St. 
Madeleine.  Believe  me,  your  very  happy  and  devoted  friend, 
Nichette."  It  is  her  wedding-day.  This  day  brings  happi- 
ness to  all  but  me.  Here,  Nanine,  let  me  have  a  pen  and 
paper.  [  Writes.']  There  now,  send  that  letter  to  the  church 
St.  Madeleine,  and  tell  the  bearer  not  to  hand  it  to  Nichette 
until  after  the  ceremony  of  her  marriage.     You  understand  ? 

Nanine.     Yes,  madam. 

Camille.     Some  one  rang.     Open  the  door. 

[Nanine  exits,  and  immediately  re-enters.] 

Nanine.  It  is  Madam  Duverney.  She  says  she  must  see 
you. 

Camille.     Then  let  her  enter. 

Prudence.  [Entering.]  Well,  my  dear  Camille,  how  are 
you  this  morning  ? 

Camille.     Better,  I  thank  you. 

Prudence.  My  dear  Camille,  will  you  have  the  goodness 
to  send  Nanine  out  of  the  room  a  moment  ?  I  would  speak 
to  you  alone. 


60  CAMILLE, 


Camille.  Nanine,  you  can  take  that  letter  to  the  Made- 
leine yourself,  if  you  wish.     You  have  need  of  a  little  air. 

Nanine.     But,  madam,  I  do  not  like  to  leave  you  alone. 

Camille.     Prudence  will  remain  with  me  till  you  return. 

Nanine.     Yes,  madam.  [Exit. 

Prudence.  [Aside.~\  That  girl  watches  me  when  I  enter 
this  room  as  if  I  were  a  thief.  "Well,  my  dear  Camille,  I 
have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you. 

Camille.     What  is  it  ? 

Prudence.     Have  you  any  money  about  you,  dear  ? 

Camille.  Money  !  Where  could  I  get  it?  The  last  money 
that  I  saw  was  in  your  hands.  Nanine  obtained  it  on  the 
last  jewel  I  possessed.  She  gave  it  all  to  you.  I  have  not 
seen  you  since. 

Prudence.  I  know,  clear ;  but  I  have  had  such  trouble.  I 
thought  Olimpe  could  oblige  me  ;  but  she  is  as  badly  off  as  I 
am.  You  know  she  ran  off  with  that  man,  because  she  thought 
he  was  rich.  Well,  it  turns  out  that  he  is  as  poor  as  a  church 
mouse.  So  here  she  is,  back  in  Paris,  without  a  friend  or  a 
sous.  She  sent  me  to  Graston  this  morning,  begging  him  to 
forgive  her,  and  to  take  her  back.  But,  oh,  dear!  if  you 
had  seen  him  when  I  gave  him  her  letter ! 

Camille.     Have  you  seen  him  this  morning  ? 

Prudence.  Not  five  minutes  since.  I  saw  him  at  the  ball 
last  night.  He  said  he  was  going  to  breakfast  with  his  mother. 
Sol  went  there  and  found  him  ? 

Camille.     What  did  he  say  ? 

Prudence.  Oh,  dear,  don't  ask  me  !  He  even  showed  the 
letter  to  his  mother,  and  then  threw  it  in  the  fire.  And  then 
she  kissed  him.  I  really  don't  know  what  to  say  to  Olimpe; 
for  as  sure  as  I  am  sitting  here  he  seemed  to  cry  for  very  joy 
that  he  was  rid  of  her,  or  something  else,  I  cannot  say. 

Camille.     Oh,  he  is  with  his  mother !    I  am  happy. 

Prudence.  Yes,  I  don't  know  what  Olimpe  will  do ;  for 
though  she  did  not  love  him,  he  was  very  convenient.  Poor 
girl !  this  will  not  be  a  very  happy  day  for  her.     We  can 


CAMILLE.  61 

spend  it  together ;  for  I  assure  you  I  have  only  got  five  francs 
in  the  world. 

Camille.  Three  hours  ago  I  had  not  one.  How  much  clo 
you  want? 

Prudence.  Unfortunately  I  invited  some  friends  to  a  sup- 
per to-night.  Besides  some  other  expenses  that  always  come 
with  new-years  day,  you  know.  Yes,  I  think  two  hundred 
francs  would  cover  it  all.  You  couldn't  lend  me  that  little 
sum  until  the  end  of  the  month,  could  you,  dear? 

Camille.  The  end  of  the  month  !  I  shall  not  need  it 
then.  Count  that.  [Takes  purse  ivhich  Gaston  placed  in 
Casket,  and  gives  it  to  her.] 

Prudence.  Oh,  dear !  what  a  pity  you  are  not  well,  Ca- 
mille. We  could  all  come  and  dine  with  you  to-day ;  then 
you  would  join  our  supper  in  the  evening,  and  we  could  have 
such  a  delightful  time  ! 

Camille.     How  much  is  there  ? 

Prudence.     [Counting.']     Five  hundred  francs  I  should  say . 

Camille.     Take  of  it  what  you  require. 

Prudence.  Have  you  enough  without  this,  dear?  [Puts 
purse  in  her  pocket.]      Perhaps  I  am  robbing  you  ? 

Camille.     Never  mind  me,  I  have  all  that  I  shall  want. 

Prudence.  Oh,  thank  you !  You  have  rendered  me  a 
great  service.  Now  I'll  leave  you.  I  will  call  to-morrow 
and  see  how  you  are.  Oh,  you  are  looking  better  to-day, 
indeed  you  are.  Now  that  the  fine  weather  is  come,  the 
country  air  would  do  you  good. 

Camille.     See  if  Nanine  be  there. 

Prudence.  I  will,  dear  !  Good-bye,  and  thank  you, 
again.  Perhaps  I  will  call  in  this  evening.  You  will  not 
feel  lonely  until  Nanine  returns, — will  you,  dear  ? 

Camille.     Oh  no, — you  may  go. 

Prudence.  That's  a  dear  ;  for  I  have  some  purchases  to 
make.  Then  I  must  go  to  bed  ;  for  I  can  scarcely  keep  my 
eyes  open.  [Exit, 

Camille.  And  that  was  one  of  my  friends  !  Oh,  what  is 
death  compared  to  life  like  that  ?    [Takes  out  a  letter  and 


62  CAMILLE. 


reads^\  "Madam:  I  have  learned  of  the  duel  which  has 
"  taken  place  between  Arniand  and  the  Count  de  Varvillc — 
ik  not  from  my  son:  for  he  has  quitted  France  without  even 
"  saving  adieu  to  me  :  but  from  the  Count  de  Yarville.  who. 
"  thanks  to  heaven,  is  out  of  danger,  and  has  told  me  all. 
"  You  have  kept  your  oath,  and  proved  how  well  you  love. 

•  I  have  this  day  written  to  Armand.  avowing  all :  that  it 
was  I  who  forced  you  to  destroy  his  peace.  He  is  far 
away :    but    he    will    soon    return.      Be    of    good    cheer. 

•  It  is  Armand' s  father  speaks  to  you.  Believe  me  your 
friend :     George   Duval.      November   loth.''*      Six    weeks 

have  passed  since  I  received  this  letter,  and  though  I 
know  it  word  for  word,  the  hour  scarcely  passes  that  I  do 
not  read  it  over  in  hopes  to  glean  from  it  new  life  and 
courage.  If  I  could  but  hear  from  him!  If  I  could  but  live 
till  Spring  !  I  will  !  I  must.  yes.  I  must  see  him  before 
I  die  !  [IjooJcs  in  the  glas8.~\  Oh  !  how  changed  I  am  ! 
However  the  doctor  says  that  he  will  cure  me  !  Yes  !  Yes ! 
I  must  have  patience  I  Spring  will  soon  be  here,  and  I 
do  so  love  the  Spring !  Xo  frown  upon  Jier  brow  forbids 
the  humblest  flower  to  hope.  She  smiles  on  all  alike, — the 
camelia  and  the  cowslip,  the  daisy  and  the  rose  !  May  I  not 
hope  that  she  will  smile  on  me  ?  I  Tvish  Nanine  were  come. 
It  is  the  first  day  of  the  year. — the  day  that  brings  new  life 
to  every  heart.  Oh.  if  Armand  were  only  here.  I  am  sure 
I  would  be  saved.  Yes  '.  Yes  !  he  will  soon  be  here, — and 
so  I  must  be  well!    [Opens  window  and  wt.~\     Oh. 

how  bright  and  beautiful  every  thing  appears  !  And  there's 
a  darling  little  child !  See  how  it  skips  along  with  an 
armful  of  toys  !  And  now  it  laughs  and  looks  up  here  as 
though  it  wished  to  give  me  one.     Oh,  how  I  would  like  to 

kiss  it ! 

Nanine.     [Entering  hurrieWy.]    Oh,  Madam,  are  you  up? 

C  [  mitte.     Yes.  Nanine  !  did  you  give  the  letter  I 
Nanine.    Yes.  Madam  !    And  then  I  ran  back  all  the  way  : 
for  on  j — lmt  are  you  sure  you  are    well  enough  to  hear — I 

mean  to  sit  up  ': 


CAMILLE.  "O 


Camille.     Oh,  you  see  how  well  I  am.     Prudence  left  me 
long  ago,  and  I  walked  over  here  myself.     Am  I  not  grown 

strong  ? 

Nanine.     But  you  must   promise   me   to  keep    perfectly 

calm. 

Camille.  What's  the  matter  ?  Something  has  happened. 
Nanine.  Yes,  Madam  !  And  I  ran  all  the  way  to  tell 
you.  But  don't  be  frightened  ;  for  a  sudden  joy  awaits  you  ! 
Camille.  A  joy,  say  you?  Aye!  speak  to  me  of  joy  ! 
You  have  seen  Armand!  He  is  come!  Armand,  come — 
come!  Oh,  where  are  you?  [Enter  Armand.']  Armand, 
you  are  come  ;  but  it  is  too  late ! 

Armand.  Oh,  Camille  !  You  must  not  speak  of  death, 
but  life  !     Live,  oh !  live  for  me ! 

Camille.  Armand,  it  is  wise — it  is  well — it  is  just !  I  have 
been  guilty.  Living,  the  memory  of  that  guilt  would  haunt 
me  like  a  spectre!  It  would  flit  between  me  and  your  smile! 
It  would  stand  upon  the  platform  of  the  past,  growing  mon- 
strous, hideous  with  my  years,  darkening  with  its  fearful 
shadow  my  passage  to  the  close !  Death's  kindly  veil  will 
hide  it  from  my  sight — the  world  will  bury  its  resentment  in 
my  grave,  and  remembering  my  sufferings  may  forget  my 
faults ! 

Armand.  Camille,  you  were  my  world  !  With  you  I  had 
all  things — without  you  nothing  ! 

Camille.  Closer,  closer,  Armand,  and  listen  while  I  speak  ! 
Armand,  keep  this.  [Giving  likeness.]  I  had  it  taken  for 
you  long  ago.  You  will  gaze  upon  it  often,  I  am  sure,  and 
think  of  me.  And  if  some  day,  a  lovely,  pure,  chaste  girl, 
should  seek  your  love,  I  ask  you  in  my  name,  to  listen  to  her 
kindly  and  let  her  lay  her  heart  upon  the  shrine  which  once  was 
mine.  And  if  she  ask  you  who  this  was, — tell  her.  Say  it 
was  a  young  friend  who  loved  you  well,  and  who  from  her 
peaceful  home  beyond  the  sky  keeps  vigil  with  the  stars, 
shedding  smiles  upon  you  both !  If  this  silent  image  cost 
her  heart  one  pang,  bury  it  in  my  grave,  without  remorse, 
without  a  tear ! 


64 


CAMILLE. 


Armand.  Oh  !  Camille  !  Camille  !  Hope  smiles  no  more 
for  me  ! 

Camille.  Armand,  the  day  I  met  jour  father,  I  wore  upon 
my  breast  these  little  flowers,  the  same  you  gave  me  in  the 
morning.  When  I  left  you  that  evening  and  came  to  Paris,  I 
took  the  flowers  and  kissed  them  ;  but  they  were  withered, 
bloomless,  faded — and  with  them  every  little  hope  that  blos- 
somed on  my  heart !  I  have  kept  them  ever  since.  \_Takes 
flowers  from  casket. ~\  See  how  pale  and  blighted  they  have 
grown.  They  are  called  "  Heart's-ease  " — a  pretty  name! 
Armand,  keep  them.  They  will  remind  you  how  I  loved  you — 
and,  when  I  am  dead,  plant  others  like  them  on  the  grave 
where  I  shall  sleep  in  peace. 

[Miter  Nanine,  Nichette,  Gustave,  and  Gaston.] 

Armand.     Gustave,  this  is  a  bitter  hour  ! 

Nichette.  Oh,  Camille !  how  you  frightened  me  !  You 
wrote  me  you  were  dying  ! 

Camille.  And  so  I  am,  Nichette  !  But  I  can  smile  ;  for  I 
am  happy !  You,  too,  are  happy.  You  are  a  bride.  You 
will  think  of  me  sometimes, — will  you  not  ?  And  Gustave, 
too, — you  will  speak  of  me  together  !  Armand,  come  !  Your 
hand !  You  must  not  leave  me  !  Armand  here,  and  all  my 
friends !  Oh,  this  is  happiness  !  And  Gaston,  too  !  I  am 
so  glad  you  are  come  !  Armand  is  here,  and  I  am  so  happy  ! 
Oh,  how  strange  ! 

Armand.     What  is  it,  Camille  ? 

Camille.  All  the  pain  is  gone  !  Is  this  life  ?  Now  every- 
thing appears  to  change.  Oh,  how  beautiful !  Do  not  wake 
me — I  am  so  sleepy  !  [Dies, 

Armand.     Camille  !     Camille  !     Camille  !    Dead  !    Dead  ! 

Nichette.  Sleep  in  peace,  Camille.  Thou  hast  loved  much, 
— much  shall  be  forgiven  thee. 


[end.] 


In  the  Cemetery  Montmartre,  in  Paris,  rests  the  body 
of  her  upon  whose  melancholy  history  this  play  is  founded. 
About  the  grave,  many  flowers,  planted  by  the  hand  of  some 
kind  friend,  continue  to  bloom  in  beauty.  An  humble  tomb- 
stone bears  the  following  inscription  : 

HERE  REPOSES 

ALPHONSINE    PLESSUS, 

Born,  Jan.  15, 1824.  j'j 

Died,  Feb.  3, 1847. 


LBJe:26 


Deacidified  using  the  Bookkeeper  process. 
Neutralizing  agent:  Magnesium  Oxide 
Treatment  Date:  Feb.  2008 

PreservationTechnologies 

A  WORLD  LEADER  IN  COLLECTIONS  PRESERVATION 

111  Thomson  Park  Drive 
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